Fighting Giants
by FUlyric
Summary: A crisis occurs that no one could foresee, nor prevent.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **I've had this plot bunny swimming in my cauldron of ideas for a couple of weeks now. I hesitated to post it now because I'm about to be without internet access for about 3 weeks while I travel. But it wouldn't leave me alone, so I felt I had to get the ball rolling. I think I can get a few chapters up before going off the grid, and it will be a quick finish when I get back.

Basically, I had been thinking about the triangular relationship among the Lawson men and where that might be going this season. I personally don't expect much in the way of atonement from Eddie, but I had several questions I was pondering. How would each of these men's relationships endure in a crisis, especially a crisis that is both unavoidable and no one's fault? Is Eddie truly capable of changing - will he stand up and be a man and a father in the face of this crisis where he couldn't years ago, or will he run again? I'm also trying out a different style: writing the chapters as first-person POV, alternating between Hank and Evan (I do not know at this point if I will attempt a Divya POV, or Eddie for that matter. This is really a brother story at the core). Plus, there will be some minor Evan/Divya, and the proverbial "whumping" which just about every RP story needs. :p

**Disclaimer: I do not own Royal Pains, although apparently Anakin Skywalker does (just kidding! don't get me started) ;)**

* * *

**Hank**

The day is warm and sunny, the birds are twittering in the trees, and after my early-morning run, I enjoy the peace and quiet of my solitary breakfast. These are the moments when I truly seem to be living the sweet life in the Hamptons. I honestly enjoy the comforts and perks of my new life a lot more than I would ever let on. It's hard not to, when you get to live in a great house like this and you have a job whose benefits often far outweigh the nuisances and gives you the freedom to do what you do the way you WANT to do it.

The peace is broken as I hear a thumping sound from the stairs. I believe my brother has risen at last. As he trudges into the kitchen, I raise my eyes from my newspaper and coffee. "Morning, Evan," I say cheerfully, before noticing the decidedly dark cloud over his head.

My little brother grumbles unintelligibly in response as he reaches to open the refrigerator. The suction around the door must be especially strong, because it takes a much greater effort to pull it open than usual. When it finally gives, he groans before he can stop himself, his hand pressed to his back. I see his eyes squint, and the telltale wince which indicates pain.

"Is your back still giving you trouble?" I ask in surprise. Evan has been complaining intermittently, though not directly to me, about an ache for over a week now. When I asked him originally, he had chalked it up to having to carry his own golf clubs at a recent outing with our 'father' – their usual caddy had been grounded for getting into his parents' liquor cabinet or something to that effect. I sort of tuned it out, half out of the annoyance which accompanies any mention of Eddie R. Lawson, and half out of habit when Evan starts a babbling tangent. But this strange soreness had persisted for a while, and now I am beginning to wonder if he hasn't pulled or strained a muscle. Either that, or it's a lot of show over nothing. But somehow, I don't think that's it. I can't tell what he would have to gain from such a display – he's been functioning normally, or as normally as possible. He's still been coming with me to see patients, been going golfing, been schmoozing clients at the club. It's not like he's actively using the situation to avoid something; he's not milking it. And I can feel the guilt welling up inside of me – I have been taking him at his word when he says he's 'fine;' I haven't been as proactive in monitoring his health as I should have been. As I usually am.

Evan grimaces. "It's fine, it's not a big deal." It's the same rote answer he's given me for the past week, but I don't believe him anymore, because it's clearly not getting any better.

"Ok, that tears it; let me take a look." I stand and indicate that Evan should take a seat. But immediately I see he's got his dander up.

Evan quickly backs away from me and deftly puts the kitchen island between us. "Nope. No, no, no, no. No touchy." Oh God, this again. I _knew _he was going to give me trouble about this – maybe that's why I've avoided examining him up until this point. I swear, he acts like a three-year-old sometimes. Most times, actually.

"Evan, I need to see your back." I say sternly, attempting to walk around the island to catch my patient. I'm not quick enough though.

"No, you don't. Nothing to see here," Evan tersely replies as he dodges back around to where I had been sitting originally. We've now completely switched places.

"You're being ridiculous. You're in pain, and you've been in pain for over a week, so sit down and let me see what the problem is!" More than a little annoyed, I repeat my attempt to approach Evan who watches me with a leery eye and once again counters my movements, like we're involved in some strange dance.

"Oh, come on, Hank!" Evan whines, not keen on having me examine him. "It's not _pain _pain, like, excruciating or anything. It's just uncomfortable mostly. Really, I'm fine!" This is punctuated by a slight hiss as another throb likely assails his muscles. '_I'm fine_,' my foot.

"Uh-huh. Sure, and that's why you're whimpering with every step you take."

"I do not _whimper_…" Evan grumbles indignantly as we play another round of cat-and-mouse around the kitchen island.

Finally, I put my hands on my hips and exhale noisily. I realize I sound huffy, but frankly I don't have the time to futz around like this. "Evan, this _is_ going to happen. You do realize that I can outrun you even when you're not lurching around like Frankenstein? So we can either do this the easy way, with you being a cooperative patient. Or we can do it the hard way, where I chase after you and take you down like a wounded gazelle, and potentially make whatever injury you have worse. Which is it going to be?"

Upon seeing that Evan is seriously weighing both options and their merits, I roll my eyes and said, "Or we can wait until Divya arrives and you can show her your imitation of a petulant child. I'm sure she'll have plenty to say about it."

Now he looks at me with narrowed eyes, trying to see how serious I am. I can tell he's also wondering how serious Divya will be, knowing she will take my side. Probably even imagining her being the one to chase after him and tackle him on the landing. Which might actually appeal to him on some level… I sigh. "You'll get a lollipop if you're good."

"Oh, _fine_… just _wonderful_…" Evan mutters as he grudgingly sits on one of the bar stools. Now that his cloaking device of seeming functionality has been breached, he knows full well I'm not going let this go. Really, it's the better choice not to go flying through the guest house with me in pursuit. He is rather klutzy, and there's a lot of expensive stuff in this place.

"Next time, I'll remember to lead with the lollipop offer," I smirk. In a way, I'm relieved. Evan doesn't like to have me overreact to minor things, but if it is actually a significant ailment, such as the head injury he sustained in Cuba, he cooperates fully right off the bat, choosing not to make things more difficult for me or for himself. The fact that he is still showing a little resistance to me is my signal that this isn't too serious, just frustratingly prolonged and uncomfortable. As I lift my little brother's grey T-shirt to see his back, he says over his shoulder in warning, "Seriously, don't hurt me."

"I won't," I reassure him, and I do a quick visual once-over. There's no bruising or discoloration, no blatant sign of trauma. But I didn't really expect there to be, if it is in fact a pulled muscle. "Where is the pain localized?"

"Kind of in the middle… more on the left," Evan responds vaguely.

"So… roughly about here?" I say, lightly pressing my fingers to the area in question.

But this causes Evan to nearly jump off the stool and hiss, "OW!" He turns to glare at me with incredulous eyes. "What did I _just _say, Henry? Easy with the prodding, dude!"

"I've barely even touched you yet!" I throw my hands up in exasperation. "How am I supposed to find what's wrong if I don't examine you?"

"I _told_ you I was fine."

"Which explains the tremendous overreaction to my fingers?"

"Well, I _was_ fine until you started poking me."

"I did not p-" I interrupt myself. No, I am not doing this, I am not going to get into this with him. I will not be distracted! "Ok, ok, I'm _sorry_. It's my bad. Clearly it's tender, but I didn't feel any swelling during my two seconds of actual contact with your body. Have you had any trouble urinating? Burning, dark color-"

"No! And oh-my-God-ew," Evan cuts me off, giving me a disgusted look.

"Yes, 'ew,' I know, but it's a standard question. Any nausea?"

"Nope. And that's still kind of gross."

"How's your range of motion?" I ask, ignoring him.

"Oh, fine – I can bend and stretch and all that, it just hurts like a mug."

"I'm not familiar with where 'mug' falls on the pain scale," I say dryly. "You've been taking Tylenol for it?"

"Yeah… it helps a little," he grudgingly admits, but I can see his frustration.

"A little, but not enough, right?" I shake my head again. "I think you might have pulled a muscle, and now you're having spasms. I want you to just hang out and rest today, ok? Try to stay away from the stairs, no pool, no golf or tennis, no lifting anything heavy. Stay on the couch, and put the heating pad on your back. I'm also going to give you a muscle relaxer, and then I think you should make an appointment with a massage therapist for later this week."

Evan's eyes light up. "Oh, me likey that advice! Right, so rest, relaxation, and an appointment with a gorgeous Swedish masseuse. Can do!" He salutes with mock solemnity, his eyes already dancing at the thought of an attractive therapist soothing his aching back.

"I never said she had to be Swedish. Or gorgeous for that matter."

"We're brothers, Hank. You don't have to _say _these things; I understood your underlying meaning. Thank you, Doctor!" I roll my eyes. Yes, Evan would be just fine.

"Hey, Evan, no 'happy ending' with that massage, please. The kink in your back is about all you can handle right now!"

"Oh, aren't you clever." I smile. Why yes. Yes, I am.

* * *

Half an hour later, after showering and dressing, I return downstairs and find Evan sprawled on the couch… awkwardly. His right leg is lifted up so that his calf is resting on the back of the couch, while the left leg has a throw pillow wedged beneath the knee. Another pillow is cradling Evan's head, and the cord of the heating pad snakes its way from beneath a tangled afghan. I can't help but do a double take as I walk through the living room. It's impossible for me to reconcile my knowledge of Evan's overall lack of flexibility with the weird contorting he's doing now… with a back injury no less. Merely walking was causing him discomfort, and now he's splayed out like a starfish. A busted starfish. Blinking, I say in disbelief, "You can't possibly be comfortable like that."

Evan barely turns his head from the television where _Regis and Kelly_ is merrily chirping. "Hey, this is the first reclining position in over a week that has not caused me unbelievable agony. It may be unconventional, but it gets the job done."

"Here, take this," I say, handing him a small pill. "It should help with the spasms. But don't even think about driving anywhere today and don't take anything else with it. It will probably start working pretty quickly." He blindly fumbles for a water bottle that is sitting on the floor next to him and gingerly elevates himself to swallow the muscle relaxer. "No alcohol either," I add as an afterthought.

"Hank, it's barely 10 AM."

"No alcohol."

He rolls his eyes, then readjusts himself on his pillow and says, casually enough, "Hey, just out of curiosity, if I'm not better tomorrow or the next day, what happens next? What else can I do?"

"Well…" and I pause. I haven't thought that far ahead, actually. I have no reason to think that applying heat, limiting activity, and getting that massage won't help the spasms, so I have to go into what-if mode for a moment. "Well, if you aren't better in a couple of days, I'll want to check for a kidney infection, which I doubt you have since you said your urination was fine." Evan wrinkles his nose and makes a face which clearly indicates he wishes I would stop talking about urine. I don't like pee conversations any more than he does, so I continue without dwelling on it. "And perhaps I'd get you an X-ray and an MRI, to make sure you don't have a fracture or a slipped disc. Why do you ask?" I wonder, suddenly suspicious. "Is there something you haven't told me?"

"No! Geez, step away from the panic button," Evan mutters. "I was just wondering – a day off is nice, but I would rather not be laid up for too long if I can help it. There are places to go, people to see, HankMed clients to snare. Plus, I'd like to avoid any scary needle stuff or anything like that."

"So I shouldn't recommend an acupuncture session?"

"_Hell_ no."

"Even if it's done by a gorgeous acupuncturist?" I smile, recalling his excitement at the massage therapy idea.

"Hank, I am shocked at your shallowness. I don't care how hot a chick is, she is not going to stick a bunch of little needles all over my body. No, thank you."

"Don't worry, I highly doubt you'll need to deal with the scary needle stuff."

A few minutes later, we hear Divya arrive, and I see Evan visibly brighten. She comes in with a clipped, very proper British "Good morning," though she does a double take and looks askance at Evan just like I did, raising her eyebrows at his position on the couch. "What in heavens' name did you do to yourself?" she asks him.

He gives her his special Evan grin, the one I have seen him develop and display especially for Divya, designed to drive her crazy and hopefully charm as well, and says, "Back hurts."

"Well, I am sorry to hear that, but I don't wonder, if you sit around like this all the time. There's no way that position can actually be helping your spine."

"It is, actually. And your concern and sympathy touch me deeply." He pauses for a second, then out of nowhere giggles a bit and says under his breath, "That's what she said." Oh, dear God, I was hoping he wouldn't go the 'that's what she said' route. I really should have waited to give him that muscle relaxer until we were on our way out the door.

Evan sees my expression and knows that I get the joke. He keeps giggling and Divya puts her hands on her hips and furrows her brow. "What is so funny? That's what who said?" I'm not sure if it's a dialect nuance or if she didn't hear him correctly, but surely she's not that naïve. Her consternation just makes him laugh harder, which causes him to spasm again. As he groans through his laughter, I use that moment to curtail the situation as seamlessly as I can. "Never mind, Divya. I just gave him a pain pill, he's getting a bit loopy."

"Hank, I just took it a few minutes ago – I'm not-"

I cut him off quickly before his tongue gets any looser. "Sorry, bro, we've got a busy schedule today. You'll be okay on your own for a few hours?" I realize I sound worried, probably far more so that I need to be in this situation – it is just a minor back spasm after all. But I never like it when my brother is in pain, no matter how minimal, and frankly, for all the bantering I'm doing, I still feel more than a bit guilty for letting it go on this long without my intervention.

"Of course I will! I'm not an invalid – I can still walk, you know."

"You have everything you need?"

"_Yes._"

"Remember, keep the heat on it, no stairs, no driving, no tennis-"

"I was thinking of rearranging all the furniture in here to get a better view of the tv…"

"_No._"

"I was kidding, Hank. See, this is why I don't like to tell you when I get sick because you get all angsty and turn into a big, old… hovering… hovercraft." Divya and I both blink at him, trying to figure out what the hell he's talking about. He realizes what he's said, and starts giggling again. "Wow, that made absolutely no sense. I mean, I knew it wouldn't even as I was saying it. It was like I was hearing myself, and I'm thinking, 'You goober, Hank isn't a hovercraft! He's your brother, and it's not nice to call him names.' But I couldn't stop myself and so I had to watch myself sound stupid… and now I can sort of see the air." His eyes widen a little, and I can see they're starting to cross a bit. "Huh. I guess it _is_ working. That's a great little pill." He grins.

"O-_kay_… on that note, we should probably get going," I say, looking at Divya. "The sooner we get these housecalls over with, the sooner I can get back to babysit."

She smiles and says with a wink, "Actually, this is rather entertaining, watching Evan lose what little inner censorship he has. I'm half tempted to stay and watch the show before he finally falls asleep."

"Oooh, ooh Hank! Give Div-div one of those pills, see what she does!"

"Div-div?" she mouths to me.

"Right, then, okay. Bye Evan!" I wave, herding Divya out the door before Evan really embarrasses himself. I can see her lips quivering as she holds back her laughter. I turn back to offer just a few more cautionary words. "Remember, take it easy. I'll be back in a few hours, but you can call me if you need to. Okay?"

"Yes, Mama Hen!" comes the plucky reply. "Mama Hen…ry…" he adds, and then the giggling begins again.

Outside, as the door closes, Divya bursts out laughing. "Oh God. Oh, Hank, I just have to thank you – I was in such a snit this morning about wedding plans, and I was desperate for some amusement. I never thought I'd say this in any context, but seeing Evan high as a kite just made my day. My goodness," she gasps wiping her eyes. "I'm glad you pulled me out of there, I think I was about to get a contact high."

"You'd think he'd have a higher tolerance for these sorts of things," I say as we climb into her car, and we pull out of the driveway

"How did he manage to hurt himself, anyway?" she asks.

"Playing golf with Dad last Thursday," I reply, and as soon as I say it I can see her do the math in her head.

Sure enough, she says, "That was over a week ago! He's only just now showing pain?" She looks at me with incredulity. And I know I am caught, and I have to come clean.

"No… he's been experiencing it all week. I think he pulled a muscle, and it's been giving him some pretty painful spasms since then."

"Now that I think about it, he _was_ acting rather Quasimodo-esque on the stairs of Mrs. Newberg's house a few days ago, on the way up and on the way down. But I never asked about it." By now her laughter has died away. "Oh dear, I should have mentioned it. I don't know why I didn't. It didn't even register."

"No, Divya, it's okay. I did ask him about it, but when he said he was fine, I took him at his word. I asked him more than once, and every time he said he was fine. And I let it alone."

"That's not like you. I mean, I can see you doing that once or maybe twice if he says he's fine – it's not like it was a debilitating injury, he's obviously been walking around and operating as usual. But over a week?" Divya gives me a questioning look as we roll up to a stop sign. Biting her lip for a moment, I can see her figuring out how to word the next question. "Is… is it because he was with your father at the time?"

I knew she was going to ask me that. Truth be told, I have been wondering the exact same thing. Normally, I would have examined and treated Evan much, much sooner, excuses be damned. But this time I didn't. Did I purposely look the other way on Evan's injury because he's still spending time with Eddie? It's an admittedly touchy subject for me, and I hate that that jerk has the power to turn me into such a bitter person. I have been very clear to Evan that I don't like Eddie being here, and I don't want to have anything to do with him, and I have regrettably been openly resentful of Evan's welcoming him with open arms back into his life, and into my life by proxy. Was I trying to… to punish Evan for that? I don't like to believe that of myself. The very idea turns my stomach. Evan is my life, my family; I don't like to think that I would use my brother's health as a… a means of proving a point, especially after claiming to have forgiven him for the financial stuff and the brotherly bonding we did in Cuba.

"I'm sorry, Hank, I shouldn't have asked that," I hear Divya say. I realize I have taken too long to answer, and she is backtracking as fast as humanly possible. "I never meant to insinuate-"

"No, Divya, it's fine, I understand what you meant." I smile reassuringly at her, letting her know I'm not offended by her question. "The truth is, I don't know. I have no idea why I didn't treat him sooner… I don't think it was because of Dad. I really hope that's not why."

"It wasn't, Hank," she tells me seriously. "You've been busy, and he did insist it was nothing. If it had been a real injury, you would have jumped all over it. At worst, this is just an inconvenience." She then gives me a small smile. "You _do _get… 'angsty' about Evan at times. I think I can understand why he would say it was nothing. He just didn't want to worry you over something so minor."

She's right. I'm sure she's right. I do overreact to a lot of things involving my brother, and this time I underreacted. Now I'm overreacting on the guilty conscience. I know Evan doesn't hold it against me. There was no real harm done in the delay to treat his back pain. And after his little chemically-induced nap which has probably set in by now, he'll be well on the way back to tip-top shape, I'm sure. He's always been a quick healer. Plus, he's got a massage to look forward to...

_To Be Continued_


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **So hopefully I've been intriguing enough with my cryptic little synopsis. :) I hope what I have in the works will be worth reading! And I promise I will make the POV distinctions as clear as I can. They won't necessarily change every single chapter, but I will make it clear at the outset whose thoughts you're hearing. I made this POV choice in order to fully immerse in the characters' heads and hearts for the purposes of this story, for a level of raw honesty, or in some cases, what they perceive to be the truth, and both brothers' inner perspectives are equally important. Although admittedly, Hank is slightly easier for me to write (that may be because I am the "Hank" in my family, with my own personal "Evan").

Thanks for reading. Things will start to pick up and I'm going to try to get two more chapters up before I have to leave. I hope you'll bear with me. :)

* * *

**Evan**

That little painkiller thing Hank gave me sends me to La-La-Land about ten minutes after I take it. I vaguely recall talking to Hank and Divya and sounding like a complete doink, but I don't really remember them leaving, and aside from getting up once to go to the bathroom, I don't do much else except lie around. For a while, I just stare at the television, amazed at how _pretty _everything is. And the ache in my back is down to a dull roar. I hope Hank has plenty of these things in stock, because I feel _juuuust fine_. I haven't felt this groovy since I had my wisdom teeth out back in college – I had some great pills for that, too. I really think a meteor could hit the house and squish me right now and I would be completely indifferent. I fall asleep at some point, though I actually have no inkling of specifically feeling tired.

I wake up suddenly, as I feel an icy stab inside my back. But after the initial jolt, it kind of fades, and it's not quite so bad - about like it's been during the worst of the spasms, which is tolerable. I must have shifted funny or something. There is some kind of noise coming from somewhere. That doesn't bother me so much as the fact that I have absolutely no frakking clue where I am. Oh, wait. I'm on the couch. Ok, _now _I remember. And I think that noise is my phone ringing in the kitchen. I must have left it in there. I don't make any effort to go get it though. For one thing, every time I blink I half-forget why I'm on the couch to begin with. Whew, that was one wacky little pill. I did think it would last a little longer, though. I don't know how long I was asleep for, but I'm still kind of feeling it. I'm definitely a bit disoriented. I think I'll go back to sleep… Then I hear the little message alert boop at me from my phone. Crap, I really _should_ get that. It could be business. Or it could be my poor beleaguered older brother calling to check on me.

I don't know why I didn't ask for Hank's help earlier with my back problem. I guess I didn't think it was worth mentioning. I mean, nothing traumatic happened to me – I lifted a heavy golf bag one day, and later on I found I couldn't stand up straight. If I had fallen down a flight of stairs, or gotten into a car wreck, or even slipped on the sidewalk, I think I would have mentioned it without hesitation. But a golf bag? Lame. Hank's always fixing things for me, and it's great that he's there for me whenever I need him. But wish I didn't do so much that needs fixing. I actually sort of wish he needed me a little more too, at least as much as I need him… just to balance things out.

And it's not like I actually wanted to take the time off to take care of this whole back thing. I am a very committed CFO. If HankMed is a success, then Hank is a success, which means he's happy, so I'm happy. It also means I'm a success, and that makes me happy too. It's win-win. Bringing Hank to the Hamptons was the best idea I ever had. I just hated seeing him floundering after he got fired – it was so stupid, because if anyone deserves success, it's Hank, and up until he lost his job, the success always came so easily to him. Of course, my original intent in our little getaway was to lift his spirits with some high living. Sort of an escape. I never imagined he would be called upon to use his skills while we were here, but he was, and as usual he shined, and now everyone wants a piece of him, a piece of the light. Easy as that. Why not turn the good fortune of the circumstances to our advantage?

My brother's career is my biggest priority at this point. But of course, now I have the added obligation of attending to my dad. I won't say 'our' dad, because Hank really doesn't care to make the distinction. I think Hank's a little mad that I've been spending so much time with Eddie R. Of course, he can't realize (since I haven't told him) that I'm doing it for him. I _have _to spend time with Dad. I have to keep him interested long enough so that he and Hank can come to terms with each other. I'm doing my best, but I'm smart enough to know that what Eddie really wants is a relationship with Hank. I guess it's a father/first-born son thing – I am well aware of the dynamic here. Always have been. And you know what? That's fine. It doesn't bother me at all, really. I can't afford to let it bother me. And why shouldn't Eddie want to be part of Hank's life? Everyone wants to be in Hank's life! I'm a decent second choice, but eventually he could get restless waiting around for Hank to thaw out and he might leave again. As a kid, I always kind of wondered if he left us the first time because of me, given that we were never quite as tight as he was with Hank, though I think deep down I know that I wasn't the reason. At least, I know it now. But if Eddie leaves this time, it _will_ be because of me, because Hank won't even get involved. I won't have been enough to keep him here, and both Hank and I will have lost our father a second time. And it will be because of my failure…

So I've got to work extra hard to prolong his presence, until Hank finally wears down and accepts him. Then we can try to be a family again… even though we no longer have Mom. In the long run, Hank will realize this is a good thing, though right now I suspect he might… sort of almost hate me just the slightest little bit for it. I can't help but believe if I was more like Hank, I wouldn't have to try so hard. But I can't think about this anymore, because it stresses me out. Geez, my back _really _hurts now. So much for my pill.

What was I doing again? Oh, yes, my phone. I prepare to heave myself up to see how many calls I've missed. I move my leg off the top of the couch – man, I did not move _at all_ while I was asleep – and… oh, oh my God, that was such a stupid thing to do because a whole new type of pain is coursing through me. Ok, fine, if that's how it's going to be, screw the phone, I'll just put my leg back up there. Except I can't now, because it just freaking hurts too much to do anything! I feel my back arching a bit, as I am physically trying to get away from my own pain. Ow, but that just hurts even worse!

I'm dizzy. I'm lying down and I'm actually dizzy, but I don't know if it's because I took that stupid muscle relaxer WHICH IS SO NO LONGER WORKING or if it's because of how excruciating this feels. The fire in my back is worse than anything I have ever experienced in my whole life. I am starting to think this isn't a pulled muscle after all – I'm no doctor, but there is just no way a pulled muscle would cause this kind of agony. It's just not possible. Can't be. Whatever is happening to me now is much more severe than what I've felt previously. It is literally taking my breath away. Did I do something terrible to myself by moving my leg just now? Ripples of pain make me shudder. It feels like I'm being stabbed. Repeatedly. By someone who stuck a bunch of little ninja stars in the freezer for an hour and is now throwing them at my back. Damn. Ow, ow,ow!

I need Hank. Or Divya… or _anybody_. At this point I'd even settle for one of the ex-assassin people Boris employs up at the main house. But to get those people _to _me, I need my phone. I try to stand up to go get it. Needless to say, my attempt is a dismal failure – I make it about two feet and I almost immediately collapse to the floor with a cry. Somehow the pain radiating from my back is making me lose control of my legs; they won't support my weight. Well, _that _can't be good. I'm struggling to keep my breathing even, and all I can think about is calling for help, so I begin to crawl on my hands and knees towards the kitchen. I don't get very far, only managing to move a couple of feet before dizziness makes me lower my head and then the rest of my body to the floor. Oh, that nice solid floor. Now that I'm down here, at least I can't fall anywhere. What the hell's wrong with me? Why do I feel like this?

I'm beginning to sweat and my heart is beating a mile a minute. Crap, I'm starting to freak out here. No matter what I tell my body, it's stubbornly refusing to obey. In fact, it seems like it's openly attacking me as a new wave of pain rolls throughout my torso. Like my body is saying, _'Oh, you want to go into the kitchen? No, that won't be possible… how about I kill you instead? Judo chop!" _Whatever I told Hank earlier, I am definitely whimpering now. I actually have tears in my eyes. And frankly, I don't think I can stop myself from crying, even if I wanted to.

I can't believe this. Why couldn't I have kept my phone closer to the couch? Another wave attacks me and I just sort of curl into myself, looking for any sort of relief I can, but finding none. I think I might be dying right now. This may just be me being overdramatic, but it sure feels that way to me. Something about being trapped on the floor, physically unable to do anything to help yourself, kind of brings a certain level of clarity. I'm so dizzy… I think I might close my eyes for a moment just so I don't have to watch the room spinning around me. I suddenly have this horrible vision of Hank and Divya coming back to the house and finding me, like, _dead_, right here where I'm lying now… Hank finding me… and I'm dead… and he isn't able to fix me and his face is just…

I kind of pop back into myself. I think I might have been on the verge of passing out just then, but now I suddenly feel hyper-aware. I can't let this – _that_ – happen. I can't just die here, alone, and have Hank just walk in totally unsuspecting and find me. He should have the chance to try to help me, or he'll never forgive himself, even though it wouldn't be his fault. He'll spend the rest of his life wishing he had been able to do something, wishing he had even known I was dying. I owe him that.

And if I am dying, I really, _really_ don't want to be alone.

Tears are streaming down my face now as I make a last-ditch effort to pull myself together. I get my arms underneath me and push my upper body up rather unsteadily, and I begin to crawl once again. By 'crawl' I actually mean 'drag.' My back is screaming at me to just stop, and then to make matters worse, it gets very hard to take a deep breath. I wonder if this is a byproduct of the pain, or the activity, or the anxiety of survival.

I'm so very close to threshold of the kitchen, but I am shaking so badly I decide I have to rest for a second. I need to catch my breath before I try to pull myself up to reach the countertop where I know my phone is resting, benign and innocent, totally unaware that it is the most sought-after object in my life right now. I allow myself to lie flat on the floor, and without even thinking I put my hand over my heart. It's beating so fast, like it wants out of my chest, and the rhythm is kind of hiccupy. _Slow down, _I try to tell it. _Please slow down just a little bit. I'm begging you… _

"Hello? Anyone home?" A voice calls from the doorway.

Oh thank you, God… With all the strength I can muster, I gathered what breath I can and call out weakly from my place on the floor. "Please, help me!"

Next thing I know, my father is standing over me, looking completely bewildered. "Evan, what're you doing on the floor?"

"D-dad…" I manage to stammer through trembling lips. I briefly toy with making some smart-alecky remark about why I'm on the floor, but decide this isn't the time. Not to mention that my mouth is suddenly quivering as though I'm outside in a snowstorm without a coat. This is new – yes, now that I think about it, I _am_ actually kind of cold, but I have no idea why it is so difficult to get words out.

Eddie bends down next to me. He puts one hand hesitantly on my head, like he's afraid to touch me, and I wonder if he can feel how badly I'm shaking. He just looks so confused, like he doesn't understand what he's walked into. And I feel terrible to spring such a situation on him like this. He has a bad track record with intense life and death moments. "Son, what happened to you? You look awful. Are you sick or something?"

"No. It's my b-back… oh, Dad, it hurts!" So, I'm, like, sobbing now. I don't know why I pick this moment to completely fall apart. I guess I am just so glad that someone is finally here to help me… at least I won't be alone. That wish was granted. If he will just stay and help me…

"Do you think you can sit up?" Dad is eyeing me like I might explode.

"I-I don't k-know." He tries as gently as possible to raise me, his arm behind my shoulders. And I try to help, using every muscle I can to see if I can at least pull myself halfway up. It's a terrible idea though. I knew that even as I was doing it. When I hear the screaming, at first I truly don't realize I'm the one doing it. Dad goes white-faced with horror, and quickly sets me back down carefully on the floor.

"Oh, God. Ok. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Evan, I didn't mean to hurt you!" He cups my face in his hands as if I am a child. He has very big hands. I remember that about him, from years ago. They feel warm on my skin, which might just be further evidence of how chilled I feel…

"My phone, on the c-counter… P-p-please… c-call Hank…" I manage to stutter. The warmth leaves my face as Eddie jumps up to retrieve the phone and do what I set out to do an eternity ago. My brother is going to freak out. I don't care though. I just want him to make it stop. If anyone can fix this… fix me… I know Hank can…

_To Be Continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **Thanks for the reviews! Here's the next chappie, and I hope to get chapter 4 up by early tomorrow morning before I have to head to the airport. Since this chapter is from Hank's POV, the _italicized _**_dialogue_** is what he hears over the phone. Just thought I would clear that up ahead of time. :)

* * *

**Hank**

It amazes me the lack of common sense in the human population. I mean, if you want an all-over tan, why not use a spray? Isn't this the reason they invented spray tans? Why would you intentionally lie outside for 5 hours without sunscreen… naked? There's only so much you can do for someone like that – I can't just magically cure a second-degree sunburn, I can only treat it. "I hope she remembers to cover up if she goes outside for the next ten days or so," I muse as Divya and I exit the mansion of our latest client.

"Oh, she's not going anywhere," Divya states confidently. Smirking, she explains, "She looks an absolute fright, and the blisters are too painful to have any sort of clothing sitting on them. She might be an exhibitionist, but she's also socially conscious. She's going to turn into a hermit for a week… a naked hermit." She winks.

"So much for the modeling gig," I shrug, and I involuntarily shudder. All that blistering... _everywhere_... ouch. Just then I hear my phone buzz in my pocket. Pulling it out, I see Evan's name on the caller ID. He must have just awakened from his nap. I bet he's starving - he's slept through lunch. I think I'll offer to bring him something from that Thai place he likes so much. I answer the phone, "Hey, bro! How are you feeling?"

"_Hank!"_

I can feel my facial expression fall, as I immediately switch over to confusion and a hint of annoyance. "Eddie, what are you doing calling me on Evan's phone?" Perhaps he figures I would actually answer a call from Evan. Which I did. Point: Eddie R. But why does he have Evan's phone to begin with? He'd better not be over there bugging my injured brother...

"_Evan's in trouble."_ What? _"I found him here at your house on the floor. He's hurting really bad. I – I don't know what to do! Something's really wrong with him."_ He is speaking hurriedly, faster than he ever has, and he sounds… upset. Really upset. Oh my God, what's wrong with my brother?

Alarm bells sound in my head. Something happened with his back, perhaps? But it's just a strain! How bad can it actually be? I want to hear it from Evan's own mouth. "Dad, let me talk to him!"

A pause, and then I hear him. _"H-Hey… s-s-sorry to b-bother you…"_ Evan doesn't sound right at all. He sounds weak and hoarse, and I can hear his breath coming in fast gasps. Though he actually tries to greet me with a casual enough tone, it's impossible to hide the anguish and abject terror in his voice. He can't hide it from me – I know every pitch, every cadence, and every expression of that voice, and I know at this moment, even without any visual cues, that something is way more wrong that anything has ever been in both of our lives.

"Evan, what's wrong? You sound-"

"_Hank, I don't… I d-don't know wha – oh, ow… God! God!"_ he cries out, and I hear him howl in pain. Yes, that is definitely pain.

"Evan! What is it? Tell me what hurts," I ask, raising my voice in an attempt to get Evan to focus long enough to describe his condition. In the corner of my eye, I see Divya's amused look drop from her face as she hears the change in my voice. I wasn't doing a good job of hiding my worry, and it's contagious. I can now see my expression reflected on her face.

"_My…m-my back… I c-can't, I can't stand up… I… aaahh!"_ Once again, he trails off into an agonized moan. It's absolutely gut-wrenching to hear, especially since I'm not right there to help him. I officially go from alarm into full-fledged panic.

"Evan! Evan, talk to me. What do you mean, you can't stand up? Did you fall somehow?"

"_No, n-no… just… just happened… 'M dizzy... Oh God, it hurts so m-m-much! Hank, help me… p-please." _

"I'm coming, Evan, I'm on my way! Give me five minutes. Just hold on, it's going to be alright!" I look at Divya quickly. "We've gotta go, now!" We run to her SUV, Divya automatically jumping in the driver's seat. I'm still on the phone as I fumble with my seat belt. "Evan? Hey, bro, you still there?"

Eddie's voice comes on the line. _"Hank, it's Dad again. Evan's in really bad shape here. What should I do? Tell me what I need to do… I thought he'd be more comfortable on the couch, but I don't know if I can lift him by myself-"_

"NO. Dad, do _not_ move him, and don't let him try to get up. Keep him where he is; we don't know what's causing the pain and moving around might make it worse. Is he running a fever?"

"_No, I don't think so. He doesn't feel warm. In fact, he actually feels kind of cold to me. Cold and clammy. And he's shaking all over and he's white as a ghost."_ In the background, layered over Eddie's voice, I hear another pained moan.

"How's his heartrate?"

"_Hang on, I…"_ he trails off and I hear some fumbling with the phone. There is a pause, and I grumble with impatience, tapping my fingers on my thigh. Finally, I hear, _"Ok, sorry, I was trying to feel his heart, and it's beating really fast."_

"Damn it." Evan's going into shock, that's clear enough, though from what, I have absolutely no idea. I turn to Divya and quickly say, "Divya, he's in shock. I need you to call an ambulance; I have to stay on this line." She whips out her phone as we turn out of the driveway and dials.

"_Hank, he's in so much pain! I don't… Should I give him something, like, would an aspirin help or-?"_

"No, don't give him anything, not even a glass of water! Dad, listen, whatever this is, it's causing Evan to go into shock. Can you grab a blanket or something, keep him warm, keep him awake, and just hang on for me? We're calling an ambulance to meet us there." I'm trying to talk to my father who is completely wigging out on the other end of the phone, and I have to make myself focus as I hear Divya giving details to the 911 operator. She's also driving like a bat out of hell, and I'm really hoping she's as good a multi-tasker behind the wheel as she normally is. "Listen, Dad, if the ambulance gets there before we do – I don't think it will, we're just a few minutes away now – but if it does, _don't_ wait for us. Get Evan to the hospital as fast as you can…" and for the love of all things holy, don't you dare leave him, I mentally add.

"_Hank, wait a second, Evan's wanting to talk to you again," _Eddie says. _"Let me put him on, and I'll run grab that blanket."_ There is a pause as I assume the phone is being passed again, or perhaps being held up to Evan's ear. I can hear the labored breathing over the line, and then a quiet, _"Hank…"_

"Hey bro," I murmur, trying to keep emotion from breaking my voice. I have to be calm, for his sake, if not for my own. I can't let him hear how scared I am – if he panics, it'll just make it harder for him. "You're going to be just fine, you hear me? We're almost there, and an ambulance is coming too. We'll get you to the hospital and figure out what's going on, ok?"

"_Hank… it really hurts!"_

"I know, I know it hurts, we'll take care of it. Don't worry."

"_I mean… I'm no d-d-doctor, and… far b-be it for m-me to give a… a m-m-medical opinion on any-anything, but… b-but… I don't think this is a p-pulled m-m-muscle…"_ he stammers, doing his best to talk around the pain that is exerting itself on his body.

"I don't think so anymore, either. We'll figure out what's wrong, Evan. We'll fix it; I promise."

"_I k-know you will… b-b-but… I think, I think I'm d-dying here…"_

"No, no, no, Evan. Listen to me, listen: you're not dying. I know it might feel like that because you're in pain, but you're not dying. You'll be just fine." I croon and I soothe as if I am trying to calm him after a bad dream, the way I did when we were little and shared a room, all the while wondering if my little brother's hypothesis is accurate.

"'_M so sorry…" _

"Sorry? What about?"

"_Everything… all the times I m-messed up…"_

"Evan, would you stop that? There's nothing to say sorry for!" I break in, though I really don't mean to sound quite so irritable. Evan is clearly trying to get his last words in, just in case, but he isn't going to die if I have anything to say about it, so he should just stay quiet and conserve his strength.

"_Love you…"_ his voice is a choked whisper now. I hesitate just a little, partly because I have this enormous lump the size of a golf ball stuck in my throat, and partly because… I know what he's doing right now. He's scared and not sure he can hold on, and he's asking my permission, and I don't want to give it to him. I don't want to make it okay for him to let go.

"I… I know… please just try to rest," I reply, my voice wavering despite best intentions. God help me, but I can't say those words under these conditions. I'm not going to allow it. He's going to have to stick around to hear me say it. Once he's out of danger, I tell him twenty times a day for the rest of our lives, but he's got to fight for it.

"_Ok… you're right…kinda t-tired…"_ comes the fractured whisper, and then I suddenly hear our father's voice calling distantly through the line: _"Evan! Come on, son, stay awake. Evan... hey, I know you're tired, I know it hurts, but don't close your eyes, ok?"_

"Evan? Dad? Dad! Eddie! Talk to me, what's happening?" No one bothers to answer, which completely infuriates me, and my heart begins to race even faster. "Hello? I'm still here, can someone please talk to me? HELLO?"

Less than a minute later, we pull up to the guesthouse, and I spring from the car before it even stops moving, and bolt to the door. I'm afraid I leave Divya in the dust as I burst inside.

"Dad?" I call as I run in.

"In here!" I immediately see them both near the kitchen. Eddie kneels over Evan's prone body, looking panicked and utterly lost. He is urgently saying Evan's name over and over, but he doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands. They're sort of hovering only an inch above Evan's body, like he's afraid to touch him for fear he'll do something wrong, but he desperately wants to. He appears to have followed my directions to the letter, having covered Evan with a blanket and his own blazer is folded up beneath his head. "Hank, thank God you're here. I was talking to him, to keep him awake – like you said – and trying to get him to answer me, and he just sort of passed out… like he fell asleep…"

"Move over," I say abruptly, as I drop to my knees by my brother, and Eddie scurries out of my way. "Evan…" I whisper, more to myself than to anyone else, as I bend over him. Evan looks horrible – his skin is so pale it has almost a grey tinge to it. I see the pathways his tears have taken down his face. There's no color in his cheeks, or his lips. Now that I can see him, he looks like someone with hemorrhagic shock. Since I can see no wound, no blood anywhere to my naked eye, it can only mean he's bleeding internally. I automatically feel for a pulse, and curse when I find it – it's far too erratic and weak for my comfort. "Ev? Evan, can you hear me? Come on, bro… just open your eyes for me," I demand as I tap Evan's cold cheeks. But my brother is now unresponsive, and by the look of him, inches from death. As I pull out my penlight and check the reactivity of Evan's pupils, I feel my father hovering over my shoulder, watching my every move. Like I need that sort of pressure on me right now. It's bad enough there's a gnawing voice in my brain screaming at me: _You SHOULD have overreacted!_

"Ok, Dad, I need you give me some room here. Go out there and help Divya bring in the oxygen tank from the car," I instruct briskly. He doesn't even question me, just picks himself up and immediately dashes outside. I check Evan's airway, which is clear. His breaths are rapid and shallow, but at the moment I'm just glad he's breathing at all.

Divya and Eddie drag in medical equipment, and I thank my lucky stars that I have a PA that just carries this stuff around with her in her car for just such an emergency. I'm pretty good at thinking on my feet and improvising in the field when I don't have the equipment I need, but I really would rather not have to use some sketchy home remedy made of paper clips and lawn clippings on my little brother when his condition is this serious. As she approaches, I hear her gasp and whisper, "Oh, God, Evan…" in much the same way I did.

"Divya, let's get the oxygen going," I say, trying my best not to let this overwhelming sense of dread choke me completely. She fits the O2 mask on Evan's pale face, and as I fumble with the blood pressure cuff, I can see her blinking fiercely, her eyes bright. She absently wipes away the remnant of one of his tears with her thumb. But like me, she must put off her breakdown for now.

"Is he going to be ok, Hank?" Eddie asks hoarsely, fidgeting nervously.

"He's in shock; he's bleeding..." I say quickly, barely looking at him. I'm too busy trying to listen for his blood pressure readings.

"Bleeding?" Eddie sputters. "What are you talking about, I don't see any blood-"

"Bleeding internally, Dad," I say impatiently. "Divya, I think he's up to Grade 3 shock here; we should go ahead and start a saline IV and an arterial line as well, to get him ready for transfusing. BP is 70 over 50."

"Bloody hell," she mutters, and I sort of wince a bit at how the un-Divya-like expression seems to have momentarily changed her entire accent. But right now, I can't dwell on it. I hear the sirens in the distance, steadily getting louder. Thank God. They must be entering the property. The sooner we get Evan to the hospital, the better. Divya braces Evan for me – even though he's unconscious, he might still involuntarily flinch at the pinch of the needle, or he could spasm again… my greater worry is that he's so dehydrated from blood loss, he may begin to convulse. As I look for a vein in which to insert the IV line, I remember how I told him that morning that he wouldn't need to worry about any needle stuff. I didn't know I would be so wrong about that, and the knowledge that I'm breaking my promise makes my hands unsteady. And I miss. _Damn. _Trying to get the needle into the vein, I miss entirely. And the worst part is, as I pull back out to try again, I see that the point where I have stuck him is hardly bleeding at all. Barely even a drop from the capillaries beneath the skin.

The paramedics arrive at long last. It seems like they have taken forever, though really Divya and I beat them by only a few minutes. I tell them what I can. Since we don't know what's going on with his back injury, I help them get Evan situated on a backboard, then onto the stretcher. As he's being wheeled to the ambulance, I turn to Divya. "I'm going in the ambulance with him. You'll follow?" She nods. She looks pale and fearful, and I know she wants me to reassure her that Evan's going to be ok. But I can't for the life of me form the words, and I don't know that I can force optimism at this point. She knows… she knows exactly how bad this is. "I'll meet you there." I pivot quickly to hurry into the back of the ambulance truck, when I hear another voice ask, "What about me?"

I almost forgot about Eddie. He's looking fearful, and almost timid, as if he's bracing himself for an explosion… perhaps the explosion of my wrath. And God help me, I _want_ this to be his fault. I want it so much, it's sticking in my throat like bile. I have no idea why Evan is ill right now, I don't know why he was like 95% functional a few hours ago and is now slowly bleeding to death inside his own body. I don't know why Eddie is here at our house in the first place. All I know is, my little brother might be dying, and _Eddie _was the one who was here with him. The truth is, I have already pinned this on him in my head, however irrational that might be, and I don't want him within a mile of the hospital. But I have a lot of questions that need answering, and since he's the one who happened to find Evan first, he's going to have to provide those answers. "Ride with Divya if you want to come," I grunt, practically daring him to fight me on this. He bites his lip. I take the opportunity to turn my back on him, and jump into the ambulance. Divya helps me close the door, and then we take off, leaving the two of them standing in the driveway.

_To Be Continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **I couldn't leave you with too terrible of a cliffhanger, so you will get the what, but you must wait for the why. Mwahahaha. Plus, the why may or may not be worse than the what. Stew on that! :p

Notes on this chapter: Still Hank's POV for this, since Evan can't really have a POV on anything if he's unconscious, can he? And the idea for Evan's ailment is inspired by a true story (dont' worry, not, like, _me_ or anything - it's not _that _true).

Happy reading! Ciao, bella.

* * *

**Hank **

Jill meets us in the ER ambulance bay as we unload Evan from the back of the truck. She is shocked to see him on the stretcher, and looks at me with concern. "Hank, Divya called ahead and said you were bringing Evan in. My God, what's wrong with him?"

I explain as best I can while we move, "He's been suffering from back pain for about a week. I treated it as a pulled muscle, but he started bleeding internally this afternoon. I don't know if he further injured himself somehow, like if he fell, or if it just began spontaneously from something else. I have no idea how much blood he's lost, but he's been unconscious for about fifteen minutes now… not reacting to stimuli…"

I help the orderlies swing Evan's stretcher around the corner to the trauma room, but just as I am about to follow through the doors, Dr. Blair, the new chief of the ER, steps in. "Dr. Lawson, we've got it from here – you'll have to wait outside," she says tersely. Turning to a nurse, she gives her orders. "Prep the OR, and call Dr. Kirkland to scrub in. Let's evaluate where the bleed is."

"I want to stay with him," I say firmly.

She shakes her head, unmoved. "That's not possible and you know it. We'll be moving him to surgery in a moment-"

"I can assist, I can monitor his vitals, administer the anesthesia-" I begin to catalogue the duties I could potentially do in order to earn my way into the operating room. I will literally do _anything_. Anything but sit on my ass while my brother fights for his life. She will have none of it though. I really get the impression she doesn't like me very much.

"You are not employed here Dr. Lawson; you do not have privileges at this hospital," Dr. Blair says firmly. "And that applies now more than ever."

"Dr. Blair, he's just -" Jill begins, but I already have words pushing out of my throat.

"He's my brother!" It's all I can think to say, though unfortunately it comes out much louder than I meant it to. Yelling probably isn't the best way to get what I'm after. But he _is _my brother. Obvious, yes, but it's the best argument I have.

Dr. Blair responds with equal vehemence. "Precisely! You are the family of the patient – your place is in the waiting room." She lowers her voice a little. "Dr. Lawson, I understand how upset you are. I really do, and I sympathize. We will do everything possible for your brother. But you, personally, are in no condition to be his doctor right now. You're going to have to wait out here. The last thing I want to do is call security on you while a member of your family is in crisis. Please."

Her 'please' is what defeats me. I know all her reasons for keeping me away. They're all sound reasons, and if I was in her shoes I would be saying the exact same thing to the wacko older brother of my patient, even if he did have a medical degree. There's a reason doctors are discouraged from treating their family members - we're too emotionally involved, and we lose our objectivity. My shoulders slump, and I take a few steps back. Jill moves along with me, and once Dr. Blair is convinced of my submission, she turns and pushes through the doors.

Jill and I stand in the hallway together. I feel her hand on my arm, I feel her begin to pull me in the direction of the waiting area, and I hear her speaking, calm and low. "Come on, Hank. Let's go sit down, and you can explain what happened. Just breathe." My feet move, but my eyes are still on the doors. I don't want to go. I promised I'd fix him…

"What if he dies?" I whisper. I didn't want to say it out loud, for fear it might be one of those self-fulfilling prophecies. If I didn't acknowledge it, it wouldn't happen. But since I'm no longer the one in charge, no longer the one doing the saving, my head has been roughly jerked out of the sand.

"He won't," Jill says reassuringly.

"He could…" I swallow. "I didn't treat him for the back pain until today. He was walking, he was okay – just an occasional spasm. I should have taken care of it when he first presented the symptom a week ago-"

"Hank, how on earth would you have known this would happen? Pulled muscles don't cause internal bleeding! You couldn't have predicted it."

"But why did I wait? He said he was fine…"

"That's why you waited. Neither of you thought it was anything big." She grabs my shoulders and makes me look at her. "Hank, Evan _will_ make it. He's young, and he's strong and healthy. He will survive this."

"I can't lose him," I say, my voice cracking all around my larynx. The thought of an Evan-less world terrifies me. I'm on the verge of tears. "I heard him on the phone – he was so scared, and he was in so much pain… I could barely listen to it without screaming along with him. I don't even know how long he was suffering like that before my father got there and called me."

"Your dad is the one who found him?" Jill asks, surprised.

I nod numbly. "Yeah, I was out with Divya… seeing patients. We still had one more stop we were planning on making before we went home."

"Thank God your dad was there."

I freeze. I had never thanked God for anything regarding my father before in my life. I bristle at the idea. Why on earth should I-?

Suddenly I feel like a bucket of ice water has been thrown on me. I was so ready to blame Eddie for Evan's sudden illness based on assumption that I purposely ignored the biggest concrete truth of the entire situation: _Eddie_ was the one who called me. Not Evan, because Evan couldn't, because he was physically unable to find a means of communicating his distress to me. Evan would still be lying on the floor in the guest house right now, and I would probably be just now leaving my last client of the day, if Eddie had not been there.

"Hank!" Jill and I both turn and see Divya and Eddie walking briskly towards us.

"What's the word?" Divya asks, pursing her lips together tightly after she speaks.

"They're moving him to surgery," I say, my eyes on Eddie. I'm trying to read him, analyzing every blink, every swallow, every word he says and their inflections.

"Did they find out what's wrong with him?" he asks me, furrowing his brow.

"No, not yet. They're probably going to go in, find the source of the bleed, fix it, and then do an exploratory to get samples to test and see what caused it."

Eddie reached up and rubbed his face with his hands tiredly. "God… I was not expecting this today. I didn't know what I was going to do." He pauses and looks at his hands. I see that they are trembling a little bit. "I'm actually shaking. I've never seen _anyone _in so much pain before-"

"What were you even doing at the guesthouse in the first place?" I break in, looking for at least one answer.

"I… I just wanted to see if Evan wanted to grab a late lunch. I tried calling his cell phone to let him know I was coming, but when he didn't answer I left a message. Then, I thought I would just drop in since it was on the way. You boys never lock the door, so I just kind of wandered in and… and there he was, just lying there… I didn't know if he had fallen, or if someone had broken in and attacked him… you boys really should lock the door at that place…" he trails off, as he sees me taking deep breaths. I'm shaking too, my hands squeezed into fists at my sides. He looks at me warily, like he expects me to punch him in the face the way I did a few weeks ago the first night he 'just wandered' into Boris's guesthouse.

"Do you know what you've done?" I ask in a quiet voice.

I can feel Eddie immediately tense up, and with an insulted fervor in his voice, he retorts, "Hey, now you wait just a minute here! I know you hate me, Henry, but you can't pin this on me. How dare you! I didn't DO this to Evan, I had no idea-"

"You saved his life!" I interrupt.

He wasn't expecting me to say that. Hell, I wasn't expecting to say that either, especially given how I felt when I first saw Evan unconscious on the floor with him nearby. He was fully prepared to have it out with me on who was to blame for Evan's illness, believing that I was accusing him of causing the whole incident and indignant that I would have the gall to say so to him. So upon hearing my declaration that he is the reason Evan is still alive, Eddie is stunned into silence, then he stammers, "N-no… no, I didn't. I didn't do anything… only what you told me on the phone… I'm no doctor, I-"

"If you hadn't been there… if you hadn't found him when you did… Eddie, I wasn't headed home yet. By the time I would have gotten there, he… he would have already bled to death…" My voice breaks. My hatred is just futile now. I've been loathing every minute of his presence in the Hamptons, in Evan's life. But the fact is, if he hadn't been there today, my brother would never have made it to the hospital alive. He would have died there on the floor, alone. I can't run away from it. Against every feeling and opinion I have of my father, I suddenly find myself embracing him tightly as tears finally erupt from my eyes. "Thank you… from the bottom of my heart, thank you…" I can barely get the words out as my defenses come down and I just… break.

I feel my father's arms reach up, a bit hesitantly at first, then tightening around me as he realizes I am not pulling away. "Ssh… it's going to be okay, son… he's going to be okay…" I hear him whisper, though I know he isn't confident. He was there after all. For the first time in twenty years, he was there... and he saw it all.

* * *

What follows are the longest four hours of my life.

I sit dumbly in my chair, utterly drained. Divya has been calling our clients with appointments for the rest of the week, either rescheduling them or getting a referral for them. Dad has called Mrs. Newberg and told her about the situation, and I wonder how long it will take before the gossip begins. Between her and her circle and all the clients Divya is calling, it won't be long before the better part of the Hamptons knows that Evan R. Lawson, CFO of HankMed, the doctor's brother, nearly died today.

Jill has instructed her assistant to call her the moment Evan is out of the OR. Once that happens, she will personally take me back to the recovery ward to see him. I'm the only one who can get away with it, since I am both Evan's emergency contact, physician, family, and his medical proxy. I'm itching for that moment, even though I don't know whether he will be able to talk, or even if he will wake up at all tonight. Of course, this might all be moot if Evan doesn't survive the surgery.

Finally… _finally_… at about 8 PM, Jill is paged to the nurses' station. She answers the call and I look expectantly at her. As soon as she hangs up, she returns. I stand up quickly, as though I was in court awaiting my sentence. Dad and Divya have joined me, and all three of us seem about ready to jump out of our skin. Please let Evan be alright…

Jill smiles. "The surgery just finished. They're moving Evan to the recovery room right now. From what I gathered, it went very well."

"Evan's still with us?" Eddie asks, determined to get her to say the actual words.

"Yes sir, he's alive, and he came through it beautifully."

I had no idea that the three of us had such massive lung capacity, because we all simultaneously let out a huge breath we've been holding, possibly since we arrived. The sudden burst of exhalation sounds overly loud, and we all giggle a bit nervously, giddy with the influx of new oxygen. "What happens next?" Dad asks.

"Well, he'll be monitored in the recovery room for about an hour or so, make sure he's weaned off the anesthesia properly, and then he'll be moved into the ICU. Hank, we can go back to the recovery room right now." She looks apologetically at Dad and Divya. "I'm sorry guys, but you'll have to wait just a little longer. Once he's settled into his room, you'll be able to visit for a few minutes, though I should tell you he might be pretty out of it for the next few days."

I am anxious to go see my brother, but as I see my father sink into his chair and put his face into his hands, murmuring "Thank God… thank God…" over and over, I pull myself back for just a moment and kneel in front of him.

"Dad…"

He lifts his face, his eyes rimmed with red, startled by my closeness. I continue, "He made it."

He nods and gives me a teary smile. He places his big, warm hand on the back of my neck. "He did, didn't he? Go on, get on back there," he smirks a bit. "You know you're dying to… I'm fine, I just need a... a moment to compose myself. You know, I'm going to need a stiff drink when this is over." I return his smile. God, I think I'll need one, too. Or five.

* * *

Jill escorts me into the recovery room. Just outside, there is a tall, blond doctor in scrubs giving instructions to two nurses. "Dr. Kirkland!" she calls, and he looks over to her. Kirkland. That's the surgeon's name Dr. Blair had spoken of. "Dr. Kirkland, this is Dr. Hank Lawson. He's the brother of your patient," she pauses and Dr. Kirkland holds out his hand. I see he's been sweating. I hope the perspiration stains are from the long hours and the surgical activity, not from… stress.

"Hank Lawson of HankMed, eh?" He smiles at me. "I've heard of your concierge business."

"How is Evan?" I ask immediately, not particularly wanting to get into the specifics of my business. I think many doctors at this hospital frown on the sort of thing I'm doing, since it takes patients away from them. If he has any ill feelings towards me for my job or my clientele, I'd rather not know about them until after I get an update on Evan's condition.

"He's doing well. He's very lucky to be alive." Don't I know it.

"Can you tell me what happened? Where was the bleed?"

"It appears one of his adrenal glands ruptured."

_What? _"WHAT?" I'm completely aghast. Holy hell. I was not expecting that. I'm absolutely floored. "How did that happen?" Glands don't just rupture on their own... lifting a golf bag wouldn't do this.

"Well, we're working on the whys of it. We removed the gland entirely and sent it to pathology. I put a rush on the labs and the bloodwork; hopefully we'll have the results for you by tomorrow morning."

My relief has been almost completely dissolved by confusion and more worry. "What about his kidneys? Are they ok? The renal artery wasn't damaged by this was it?" I realize I have never done the various tests required to see if Evan and I are compatible matches for organ donation. We're the same blood type, so I can always give blood or a lobe of my liver, but the kidney criteria are a little more complex. I thought about it once, when I first began med school, but I dismissed it with the assumption that of _course _we were matches for each other – we're brothers, aren't we? But sometimes siblings _aren't_ compatible donors. I should have made sure years ago – it's the responsible thing to do…

"Dr. Lawson," Kirkland says, attempting to get my attention again. "Of course, we'll be monitoring his kidneys carefully over the next few days, but so far they are both functioning fine. The renal artery was not damaged."

"Oh, thank God!" Ok, then… but the minute we're out of the woods I'm doing those tests.

"He's stable now, and we're transfusing him one more time to be safe before we move him to the ICU."

"One more time? How many transfusions has he had?"

"I think it adds up to about twelve units of blood given while he was on the table." My jaw drops. Kirkland says it so casually, so matter-of-fact. How can it be so easily described, when that amount of blood is enough to refill Evan's body nearly one-and-a-half times? He lost that much? Kirkland rubs his face. He appears exhausted. "I tell you, it has been a long while since I've had to do an operation like that. When I opened him up, it looked like a shotgun wound in there." I blanch further at that. Good God. Just… geez.

Jill sees how discomfited I am, and steps in. "Thank you, Dr. Kirkland. We appreciate the information."

I shake myself out of my thoughts – thoughts centered on blood that should have been circulating in Evan's body properly but somehow stepped out of bounds – and offered my hand one more time. "Yes, Doc, thank you so much."

He offers me another smile, and says, "It's my job. I'll be in early tomorrow to check him, and hopefully I will have those lab results for you. Then we'll get Evan on the road to recovery. The worst is over." He casually claps me on the shoulder, and steps away.

Jill brings me to the curtained area where Evan has been deposited after his surgery. "I'll let you two have some privacy," she says gently.

"Hey Jill, will you tell Dad and Divya everything's ok? I'll tell them the gory details as needed, but you might want to explain the rupture to Divya so that she knows what's going on. My father won't understand all of that, so let me explain it to him myself."

"Sure thing."

"And, um… don't mention the whole "like a gunshot wound" metaphor…"

"That's probably best."

I pull the curtain open and step over to the bed. Evan looks even worse than I expected. His skin is impossibly pale, his lips only slightly pinker than they had been in the ambulance. He looks as though he has literally been bled dry. Which he sort of has. His body appears a bit swollen from the fluids various tubes are providing. It's not alarming, but on Evan's slight frame, the puffiness is definitely noticeable. But he is breathing evenly with the help of the nasal cannula's oxygen, and the wires connecting him to the machines monitoring his temperature, blood pressure, heart rate, and morphine level produce reasonable numbers and signals. For the moment, at least, does not appear to be in any pain. That will all change, of course, as the anesthesia begins to wear off. I sit down and reach for his cold hand, absently massaging his fingers to warm them up. I'm mentally perusing all my medical books, recalling everything about the adrenals, those small endocrine glands that sit atop the kidneys. They, along with the thyroid, are the glands with the greatest blood supply per gram of tissue. And this incident proves it.

I still can't wrap my head around him needing twelve units. _Twelve._ Evan's body was filling up with blood, seeping from the inexplicably broken gland, more and more, and it would have continued until... I have to stop dwelling on that. But the lapse in my circular thinking has caused another thought to enter my head, and it is something I'm not certain I want to acknowledge: _Evan looks like Mom._

I mean, Evan and I resemble each other. You see us and you can tell we're brothers. But we have our physical differences, and the truth is I look a bit more like Eddie, and Evan takes after Mom the most. I've always known that, and I believe he does, too. His coloring is just like hers – the dark hair, fair skin, and the light eyes, the slender build (although Evan is much taller) – and even the way he smiles, the sort of lopsided way one side of his upper lip curls a fraction of a second before the other side… that's from Mom, too. It's never really bothered me before today. I knew the resemblance was there, but it wasn't important enough to think about fully. Plenty of children resemble one parent more than the other. But now, I'm looking at Evan lying on that bed, so pale and fragile-looking, and with the wires and tubes, and it's like a flashback to Mom's hospital bed. Even his hair – near the end, when she had decided to stop the chemotherapy treatments because they were no longer doing any good, her hair had grown back a little bit. By the time she died a few months later, she had a head of tight, dark curls.

Evan's not Mom. I have to repeat this to myself a few times. I cannot tell anyone I thought that, or they'd think I was crazy or morbid or seeing ghosts… Evan is _not_ Mom.

Shortly after I sit down, I see Evan beginning to stir. He gives an involuntary whimper, and I instinctively tighten my grip on his hand. "Ev? You with me?" I murmur. Evan responds with something incomprehensible as his body begins to become aware of pain. His eyelids flicker. "Hank?" he manages to whisper upon seeing me, what I'm sure is the blurry image of his older brother by his side.

"Hey buddy," I say softly, giving him a wobbly smile and gently gripping his shoulder.

"Hey," Evan slurred, attempting to blink away the fog.

"You're in the hospital, Evan. Try not to move around too much. You just came out of surgery."

He lazily looks around him, and I suppose deciding it's too much effort, closes his eyes again and grunts, "I lived? Yaaaay, me." He sounds so tired and looks so beaten, yet there is just the tiniest trace of light in his voice. The Evan-spark is still there. Even though it's a terribly dramatic and serious situation, I choke out a laugh in spite of myself. Unfortunately, I realize quickly that my laughter is mixing with tears, and from the way he opens one eye to look at me I am sure that I sound on the verge of hysterics. I try to pull myself together, but I can't erase the lingering smile that he's still able to sound like Evan. "What surgery…?" he asks with effort.

"You… you had massive internal bleeding. It looks like one of your adrenal glands ruptured."

"Oh," Evan murmured, trying to follow the explanation. His eyes keep drifting closed, but he's still making an effort to figure out what's been going on. "That doesn't… sound good." He winces a little bit. "Why'd it… pop? That's not… usual... is it?"

"No, it's definitely not usual for a gland to 'pop.' They're running some tests to figure out why it happened. The main thing is, it's out now, you're all fixed up and you're doing great. You just need to rest now and get your strength back."

"OK…" Evan shivered. "'M freezing…"

"Here, let me grab you another blanket. You lost a lot of blood, so your circulation probably got a little wonky."

"Wonky… medical term?" He's teasing me. He nearly died and now he's poking fun at my slang.

"From the Latin." I give a faint, half-hearted smile, playing along as I hurriedly grab an extra blanket off of an empty bed nearby. I gently tuck it around his swollen body, careful not to accidentally bump or jostle the bed or the patient. "That a little better?"

"Uh-huh…" Evan nodded slightly, squeezing his eyes shut to awareness. "Tired…"

"Yeah, I bet."

"'M I allowed to go to sleep?"

"Yes, you're allowed," I say, taking his hand again. He squeezes it tightly. "We'll be moving you to a room in a little while, but you can go to sleep now."

"Will you stay with me?"

"Of course," I say quietly. Maintaining my contact, I bring my other hand up to his head, resting it on those curls that he got from Mom. Somewhere beneath my fingers, I can just barely feel the edges of a scar, the result of a collision with a scuba tank in Cuba. I had to use his hair as a replacement for stitches, and it wasn't entirely pleasant. My touch is considerably more gentle this time. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Knew you'd save the day," Evan murmurs, already halfway back to sleep, morphine dripping into his veins and easing the pain. I frown a little, because technically I did not save the day… far from it. I won't correct him now though. He'll learn soon enough how ineffectual I was today.

For now, I lean down and say, "Love you, Evan." I had promised inwardly that I would say it if he survived. Here he is, in front of me, drugged up, in pain, tired out of his gourd, and weak from blood loss, and most likely will remember nothing of this later on… but he's alive.

"I know… Love you, too, Hank," he whispers, trailing off as he falls asleep once again.

_To Be Continued..._

* * *

**Author's Note #2:** I'm sure we have all pictured Evan and Hank's mother in various capacities, and wondered what actress would play her if we were ever treated to a flashback scene of the boys' childhood. And I'm sure everyone pictures her a bit differently (I bet it would actually be really interesting to see who we would cast and why), but in my mind, I picture someone with Evan's coloring, and for the purposes of this story, I have cast Lisa Edelstein in my brain as Mrs. Lawson. That's just me though. :p


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **I am baaaaaaaaack! Thanks to all who left me great reviews. Still trying to get over my jet lag, I've rewritten this chapter like three times, hence the reason I didn't post it immediately after I returned. And I'm still not _completely _100% happy with it, but I feel like there's not much else I can do with it. Maybe because it's so long and a lot is going on - I don't know, but I struggled with balancing the emotions and making sure everyone was in character. The next one will be better, I promise. But this one is a nice and long Evan POV for your trouble and your patient waiting. Just... um... just don't throw anything at me after you read it...

Don't own RP, storyline based on true events.

* * *

**Evan**

Craaaaaaaap. I would pay a handsome sum for someone to kill me right about now. Well, ok, maybe that's a bit over the top, not to mention probably a little ungrateful given the efforts made to save my life yesterday. But I'm not sure I can adequately sum up just how utterly wretched I feel in the suckage that is this post-surgical aftermath. Once the reality of my survival fully sank in, I confess I had hoped to feel a bit better now that the problem was solved. Apparently that was way too much to ask for.

This is actually the most clear-headed I've been since I came out of the operating room, but let me let you in on a little secret: clarity is unbelievably overrated. I can only recall little bits from last night, but they're all rotten bits. The first thing I remember after seeing Hank in recovery is waking up in this room. Actually this part is kind of fuzzy – I think I was still under the influence of the anesthesia then, so I'm not totally sure if I was actually awake or just dreaming it. Hank was here and he was talking to Dad and Divya – I guess explaining that my glandy thing popped or whatever – but I'm not completely certain. Everything sort of sounded like it was underwater. Eddie R looked surprisingly old to me. He's always had a youthful vitality, but this really stuck out to me: that for the first time I actually saw him as an old man. He kept his distance, only willing to pat my leg. I think he was worried he'd hurt me or dislodge one of the dozens of tubes trailing out of me right now, or perhaps Hank had given him strict orders not to damage me. Then some nurse came in to do… something… and I guess I fell asleep again.

Then I woke up around 11 PM. At least that's what Hank said when I asked him what time it was. I asked him, like, a million times, because I had the mental retention of a goldfish at that point. I remember feeling kind of hot and restless, like I had a fever or something. Hank said it was probably a reaction to all the blood transfusions I had been given during the surgery. The way he said "all" makes me wonder exactly how many I had. Somehow, I suspect it was a lot. It was just the two of us, and he stayed up with me for the next couple of hours, putting cold cloths on my forehead and feeding me ice chips. He said it was easier than having me sit up to drink water. I was drifting in and out for most of that time, but I gradually relaxed and went back to sleep.

The most vivid recollection I have is waking up around 4 in the morning, in an absolutely obscene amount of pain. There was a moment when I actually thought I was back in the guest house on the floor, it hurt so badly. The really awful part was that I was maxed out on the morphine. There's a little overdose prevention doo-dad on the drip that required some special code which Hank had been controlling the whole night, but it wouldn't let me have more for about an hour. Even Hank wasn't able to make it give me more. An hour doesn't sound like a remarkable length of time in retrospect, but it seemed like an eternity for me, and it _sucked_. I was very, VERY awake for that hour, and unfortunately I remember every horrible minute, lying here moaning and shaking with pain and pleading with Hank to make it go away. At one point, I demanded that he let me die if he couldn't give me anything to stop it. And I fully remember his face when I said that – he looked like I had kicked him in the gut. Though I certainly couldn't appreciate it at the time, I know he was turning himself inside out at not being able to do anything to expedite my relief. And I did not make things easy for him. I'm very ashamed of that.

It's now some time in the early morning. I can see glimmers of daylight streaming in from the part in the curtains. I've been awake for about fifteen minutes or so, and for the moment I'm not in an unreasonable amount of discomfort. Every so often, pain will roll over me like a wave on the beach, but I can deal with it. My poor brother is curled up in the armchair near my bed. He looks like he's actually sleeping pretty peacefully despite the awkward positioning, and after the night I gave him, I'm trying to hold off waking him for as long as possible. It's the least I can do, and the minute he wakes up I plan on apologizing for the whole wah-wah-it-hurts-please-kill-me-i-want-my-mommy stuff from last night.

In the meantime, I mentally try to take stock of my situation, counting up the tubey things that are sticking in me, trying to make sense out of the numbers glowing on the monitors around me. As I'm doing my inventory, I notice that my fingers seem swollen. In fact, I feel sort of… fat. I somehow seem to have put like 30 pounds onto my willowy frame overnight. Wow, that sounds really vain and stupid, not to mention where are my priorities? But it's a little weird, right? Hmmm. It has to be a reaction to the drugs or something. Knowing I'll probably regret it, I try to move my heavy arms to lift the blanket and peer down to see if my legs are swollen too. It hurts to do this, and it's hard to tell from my vantage point since I can't really sit up, but then I get distracted looking at a few more tubes I didn't realize were there. Oh, _hell_ no… I've seen enough reruns of 'House' to know that that one particular tube disappearing under my hospital gown is a… a catheter. Arg! Yuck, yuck, yuck! When did they stick that in there? I have no recollection of that happening, and I'm pretty sure it would be something you'd remember! That's just obscene. I object, I completely object. But I make no attempt to pull it out. Not only am I not qualified to do that, I also can't reach that far at the moment. And I imagine it's in there for a good reason, whether I agree with it or not, and I'll probably get in trouble with the medical people, including my brother, if I try to yank it out now. Plus, I am fairly certain that I will be in for a world of hurt when it does come out….

"What on earth are you doing?"

Hank's awake. And he's looking at me with a funny, slightly groggy expression. Oh, I see – I'm holding up my blanket and looking at my bottom half intently. Yikes. God only knows what he must be assuming. Like I would even have the energy for that now. "Not what you think," I grumble, letting the blanket back down over me once more, wincing as I do so. "I was just… weighing the pros and cons of ditching the catheter."

"Evan, don't you dare pull anything out!" Hank is wide awake now. He jumps up quickly from the chair, stumbling over his sleepy feet, and rushes over to see what I must have ruined. Oh, for crying out loud…

"I didn't touch anything…" I gripe as my brother checks just about every wire and tube on me, including the offensive catheter (which is just great and not embarrassing at all, oh no), wishing I didn't sound quite so annoyed and exhausted. "I wouldn't be able to mess anything up anyhow. I can barely move."

He seems to be satisfied that everything that should be attached to me is actually attached. He sighs and rubs his eyes for a moment, then, blinking the remnants of sleep away, goes into concerned, overprotective brother mode. "How long have you been awake? Are you ok? How's your pain?" The questions come rapidly, and I don't know whether to give a blanket answer or respond to each individually. Instead, I decide to try to dispel his hovering a little bit with a change of subject. If I can still make him smile, it means that I'm not in as dire a situation as I keep imagining I am.

"I'm ok at the moment," I say, giving him as reassuring a smile as I can manage. "But…" and here I lower my voice almost conspiratorially. Hank leans in to hear what I'm going to say. "I think I'm fat," I whisper seriously, as if someone might be listening and judging my fat ass for being fat.

Hank's brow furrows. "Huh?"

"I'm not fishing for compliments here, Henry, I'm serious. Am I fat?" I suppose I also could have gone with _'Does this hospital gown make me look fat?'_

A sharp blast of air shoots out of my brother's nose, sounding like a snort. But he does try to keep a straight face and answer me seriously. "No, of course you're not fat."

"Don't lie to make me feel better. My fingers look like little sausages."

"Oh, for the love – You're not fat, Evan. You're experiencing some residual puffiness. You got really dehydrated yesterday from blood loss, and now your body is retaining the fluids that were given to you. Once your tissues absorb it and replace what they lost, the rest will drain away," he explains. I guess that makes sense.

But I decide to keep going anyway. If I can prove that I can find some humor in the situation, Hank will hopefully relax a bit. "So what you're saying is, I'm fat."

"No. I'm saying you're temporarily a little swollen."

"Like the Michelin Man."

"Evan!" Hank shakes his head in disbelief. I think he's starting to get that I'm messing with him. I can see some of the tension leaving his face. "I know it must feel a little weird, but it's really not that bad, and I promise it will go away quickly. I just can't believe that you're worried about a little water weight at a time like this."

"First of all, it's like 30 pounds of water weight, which is a lot no matter how temporary it is. And I didn't know it was water weight, so you can see why I'd be a little disturbed at waking up to an instant overnight blubber butt. Secondly, what else am I going to worry about? I think you're probably worried enough for both of us." Hank's wry look dims a little, and I know that I'm right. I hesitate to ask, but curiosity has been plaguing me since I could coherently think about the whole situation, and I'm positive he's been thinking about it all night long. "Hank, why did this happen?" I ask quietly.

"I don't know, we haven't got the test results yet, Ev. It's still very early in the morning; we'll probably know in a few more hours," Hank responds patiently, checking his watch.

"I know… but what do _you _think caused it?" I press. "You're a doctor – you have to have _some_ theory as to why my little glandy thing went 'splodey everywhere."

He winces a little at my description, which I guess is maybe a bit graphic, but I see him collecting his thoughts and deciding how to respond. He muses, almost to himself, "What do _I _think?" A moment's pause, and then he looks directly at me and says, "I think you got an infection or obstruction of some sort, perhaps a clot, which inflamed your adrenal gland – your 'glandy thing,' as you call it – and eventually caused it to rupture. That's what happens with appendicitis. I'm betting it was something similar in this case."

An infection or an obstruction. I guess that sounds like a plausible, satisfactory answer. Hank would know, after all. Yet, I can't shake this feeling that it's not so simple. It's not that I think Hank is lying to me, not at all. It's just… I don't know. I'm simply not convinced. Something about the way his smile, while definitely and completely genuine, doesn't reach his eyes. He doesn't have the same sort of confidence I've seen in him when he successfully diagnoses our HankMed clients. I think he's either giving me the answer he is hoping to hear rather than the one he expects to hear, or he's as clueless as I am and has absolutely no idea why this happened at all. He's trying to reassure me, to keep me from worrying or panicking, so he's keeping his actual thoughts to himself. Maybe even locking them down so he doesn't have to deal with his own assumptions unless or until it becomes necessary. One of the burdens of being a doctor is that Hank knows more about these things, which means he has a lot more possibilities to sift through. He's more than simply worried about me. This goes beyond overprotective big brother. There's a slow-moving undercurrent of dread beneath his calm expression. He's scared.

"What's done for that?" I ask, as casually as I can, adding _'if that's what it really is' _to myself. I don't confront him with my suspicions. Though I know he's holding back, and though I'm still wondering what he's really thinking, something prevents me from asking about it. Deep down, I'm not sure I want to know what it is he fears is wrong with me.

Then again, deep down, I think I might already know what he's worried about. And I don't think I want to hear him put it out there.

I must do a good job of seeming as though I buy his explanation, because Hank continues on with his infection/obstruction theory. "Well, the gland has already been removed, which is the primary thing. Once they confirm the diagnosis, you'll probably get some antibiotics, and then you go home when you've healed sufficiently. It might be a few weeks until you're back on your feet – you might be CFOing from your bed for a while." His smile stretches a little bit, and now it looks normal as he gently jokes with me. I don't feel much like joking anymore though. If it turns out it was just a simple ailment, as Hank said, I'll still be laid up for a few weeks? I shudder to think how long I'll be out of commission if it truly is something worse. Either way, it's more stress for my brother to add me to his list of patients.

"And you're forced to take care of me that whole time," I say glumly.

Hank arches his brow. "For the record, I like taking care of you. It sure beats the alternative."

"Someone else taking care of me?" Now that could actually be a thought. I don't want HankMed to suffer because Hank's wasting his time fretting over me. Maybe he could put Divya in charge of me and see clients solo. Of course, I would have to be very careful to be a good patient and not bug the hell out of Divs, causing her to run screaming from the guest house….

"No, the _other _alternative." What's the other – oh, he means not being able to take care of me because I'm dead. Right, that does make more sense. Whoops. All this medication, not to mention keeping all the worrying buried deep, is making me kind of slow on the uptake.

"I just wish I hadn't caused all this trouble for you," I continue. "I should've come to you sooner about the back pain. I'm sorry, bro… I honestly didn't think it was a big deal, or I would have. Really, I would have-"

"Evan, don't. Nothing you did caused this. And even if I had examined you sooner, I would've treated you the same way." Hank smiles a bit guiltily at me. "A ruptured adrenal gland is not something I've encountered very often. In fact, I've never encountered it. There are forty other things I would have treated you for before even thinking of an adrenal problem. I saw a common symptom – back pain – and I automatically assumed that it was a muscular issue because it was a logical conclusion." He looks at me seriously. "You were still functioning; you could walk; you didn't have a fever, or nausea, or numbness, or any other alarming symptoms. Aside from the discomfort, you were perfectly fine. Neither of us could have known what was going to happen. It's not your fault." He pauses, then chuckles softly. "I guess it isn't mine, either."

"Of course not!" I blurt, stunned that he seems to have just now realized this. "Hank, please tell me you're not blaming yourself for what happened." Geez, if he's feeling guilty about my thing popping, how much worse did I make things last night with my unmanly meltdown? _'Give me something – anything – just make it stop! If you won't help me now, then for God's sake, why couldn't you have just let me die earlier? I can't take it, Hank – please just kill me! I want to die, I can't stand it. PLEASE!' _Yeah, real sensitive, Evan. Sheesh.

"No, no… I'm not, bro. It's no one's fault. I know that. I just hadn't said it out loud to myself yet." He sees my dubious expression and chuckles. "Seriously. I promise, I'm not blaming myself. Just like I know you're not blaming yourself," he adds pointedly.

"Touché," I concede. Before I can say anything else, my words are stifled in my throat as pain hits me. Unlike the past week, when the pain was confined to a small space in my back, this rolls throughout my entire body, all the way down to my toes. Shuddering, I squeeze my eyes shut and grit my teeth, twisting the blanket in my puffy hands, which hurts too. For a moment, I only focus on allowing it to pass. I feel Hank move closer to me, feel his hand on my shoulder. "Just breathe through it, buddy," he says gently, and I hear the little boop-boop sound of him punching in the code on the morphine drip, allowing a little more to flow into my veins. "Take it easy."

I exhale as the awfulness subsides, and blink away the tears that had formed in my eyes. Taking a few more deep breaths, I say, "It's ok; I'm ok… it passed. Whew."

"Not as bad as last night?" Hank asks, his hand moving to my face to wipe off a tear that had snaked down my cheek.

"No, nowhere near as bad as last night…" I sigh. "Sorry about all that, by the way… you know, for the stuff I said…"

"Don't apologize, Evan. You were in agony. I understand. I just wish I could have done more for you."

"You've done plenty for me, Hank," I say sincerely, before a yawn ruins the moment. Man, that morphine just sucks the energy right out of you.

My brother smiles. "Kicking in already, is it?" He straightens the blanket I manhandled during my pain fit. "You should rest now. I'll be right here." _Just like he always is,_ I think as I close my eyes…

* * *

But when I do wake up several hours later, it is Divya who sits by my side, not Hank. I guess he ran out to get coffee or change his clothes or something. She doesn't see I'm awake right away, so I take advantage of the moment to just look at her, which is always a nice experience. She's got her hand entwined with mine, and she seems to be studying them intently as her thumb absently rubs my knuckles. She looks… kind of bummed out, actually. I wonder what she's thinking about.

As much as I am enjoying the view of 'Divya at Rest,' curiosity gets the better of me yet again. I also want to make sure she's ok. "Hi, Div," I murmur, sleep still present in my voice.

She starts when the silence is broken, then recovers with a soft smile. "Hi. How are you feeling?"

"I'm ok…."

"You look considerably better than you did yesterday."

Oh, she is so lying – I know that given how I currently feel, I MUST look like death warmed over, especially since I'm all fat and junk. Well, I guess she's referring to the fact that I'm not screaming all over the floor. "Well, thanks, Div…. Are you doing ok?"

"Me?" She looks at me, perplexed. Sure, I suppose it's an odd thing to ask – I'm the one in the hospital bed after nearly dying from a glandular hemorrhage. But I know that I'm not the only one affected here. The situation took a toll on all the people who stayed conscious yesterday, maybe even more of a toll than on me. Divya suddenly lets go of my hand and stands up, as if she just realized she was still holding it and is embarrassed to have been caught touching me. She goes into Physician's Assistant mode, and begins to busy herself collecting some ice chips in a cup. "I'm fine, Evan…. Your brother went home to shower and change and pick up a few things for you. I'm sure he'll be back soon." She offers the cup to me. "Thirsty?"

I nod. I manage to pop one into my mouth, and as I suck on it, feeling it melt down my throat, I ask, "Has my dad come by or anything?" Even though I know it was Dad who found me yesterday, a small part of me is scared that the whole incident was too much for him and he bolted.

"Actually he did, shortly before I got here. No one wanted to wake you up, so I suggested that Hank take the opportunity to get some air. Your father actually gave Hank a lift home."

Wait, Hank and Eddie agreed to carpool? "Was Dad holding a gun on Hank to get him to agree to that?" I ask.

Divya rolls her eyes and smirks. "No, they were perfectly civil. I guess you could say they've… found common ground."

"Common ground? What common ground?" I am so confused right now. How long have I been asleep? Was my adrenal gland the gateway to some alternate dimension where the Lawsons were a functional family unit?

"I believe that would be you," Divya says, patting my leg, and so help me, there is some sort of undertone in her voice of what sounds to me like affection. So Dad and Hank are buddies now because I'm sick? That's… weird. I seem to have missed quite a lot in the past 12 or so hours. Well, maybe it's not that weird. I guess if they thought I was going to croak, they came together for mutual support? Huh. But that's what I wanted, right? From the beginning, this is what I've been working toward – having Hank and Dad establish a relationship again. And that's good. And now they're together… without me. Because I'm here. And they didn't want to wake me. So… great.

"Evan, you alright?"

I suddenly snap out of my own head, and Divya is looking at me with concern. Like, a lot of concern. I must have gotten a funny look or something. Mustering as much effervescence as possible (which I'm sorry to say, is a rather pathetic amount), I give her a feeble smile and work to change the subject, deciding to try and see what gave her that funky look I saw while covertly observing her. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine… just feeling a little twinge, but really, I'm ok. So… what's wrong?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Divya takes her huffy tone, and turns her back to me, fidgeting with the ice and the other various things on the nightstand by the bed.

"Come on, Divs. You're all tense. What's got you so worked up?" I chuckle. "I mean, I know it's not because I'm in the hospital; you don't like me that much."

With a suddenness that makes my head spin, Divya reels around and faces me. To my shock her eyes are huge and wet with incoming tears. "Is that what you think?" she very nearly screeches at a frequency I thought only bats were capable of producing. "You really think that of me? Have I honestly made you believe I hate you so much that I don't give a fig if you're sick? Because it's just not true, Evan!"

"No, no, no, no, no, no! Divya, I was just joking, I didn't mean anything by it, I swear!" I backpedal as quickly as I can. "I was doing that thing we do, you know? I say something, you say something, we get like a back-and-forth going… banter! I was trying to banter! Please don't be upset!" I attempt to reach for her arm, but I guess I underestimate how far and how fast I can move. Hurt, hurt, hurt! I give a hiss and wince, pulling back a bit as the stretching exerts its consequences.

The sound of my pain must reach her ears, since Divya snaps out of her frenzy. "Oh, be careful," she commands as she rushes to push me back down again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause you pain," she murmurs, hastily swiping at her eyes, and keeping her gaze averted.

I get my breath back finally, and hurry to silence her. "No, Divya, please – I know you… 'give a fig.' I don't know why I said that, I was just trying to keep things light, you know? Listen, I am on so many drugs right now, I don't even know what I'm saying until I hear it come out of my mouth. You shouldn't take anything I say seriously right now. It's the drugs," I conclude feebly, begging with my eyes for her not to be upset. Making Divya cry is probably the last thing in the world I ever wish to do, especially given that I would destroy anyone else who did such a thing.

She purses her lips, then says, "Drugs, huh? What's your excuse for all the other times you've spoken without thinking?" My heart sinks a bit, but then I see the corners of her mouth twitching, and it slowly dawns on me that she's not really mad at me. I tentatively hold out my hand, and I feel a wave of relief as she takes it and squeezes it gently. Relief and… oh, fine, I enjoy the contact immensely. What do you want me to say?

"So you are actually ok?" I say, hesitantly.

Divya nods. "Yes, I am. But you're right, I was feeling a bit on the tense side. I just wanted to… hear you talk." She grimaces a bit. "That sounds like such a silly thing to say. I mean, I – we've been so worried about you, and I tossed and turned all night…" she sighs, then taking a deep breath, goes on. "You gave everyone quite the scare yesterday, Evan. You've got to promise me you won't ever do that to… to us again."

"Believe me, Divs, I have no plans to do this again. I actually didn't mean to do it this time." I bite my lip. "I'm sorry. I know it must have been scary for you. It was pretty scary for me, too – the part I was awake for."

"I know… it was… kind of horrible."

"It won't happen again. I mean, I guess it won't. I don't really know why it happened to begin with," I say. Then, innocently enough, I ask, "Do you know why it happened? Why my gland popped like that?" Divya's brown eyes go a bit wider in surprise at the question, and she looks like she's struggling for an answer. Ok, now I'm worried. "Did my test results come back while I was asleep?" Against all my best intentions, I feel my heart start beating very fast. Crap, this is it – moment of truth…

"Test results? No, we still don't know those yet." She looks apologetic. "I really couldn't say what happened, Evan. I haven't seen the labwork… I… I don't know enough…"

_What? _She doesn't know enough? About what? She may not have the little M.D. after her name, but she comes up with diagnoses all the time, and she's as quick as Hank. "If you had to wager a guess…" I insist.

"Evan, I… I mean, I suppose it could have been a hemorrhagic cyst," she hedges. Cyst? Well, it's clear she and Hank didn't get together to compare notes on this and get their story straight in case I starting polling them for opinions. "Or perhaps one of the blood vessels leading to the gland had an embolism, which later burst. Or it might be an infection. Or-"

"Ok, ok! That's good, I mean, I guess we'll see what the tests say," I interrupt, cutting her off before she recites the entire medical encyclopedia's chapter on adrenal glandular ailments. Geez, for someone who doesn't know enough, she sure started coming up with those possibilities pretty quick.

"Don't worry, Evan. The rupture was the most serious part of this, and it's been fixed. The likelihood of this ever happening again is practically nonexistant. I'm sure it was just a random anomaly." Divya smiles confidently at me. Her smile seems just a little more sure than Hank's did. And one of those diagnoses she was throwing out was something like the one Hank said, the infection one. Maybe that _is_ the most likely cause, and maybe these fears I'm having are much ado over nothing. I do notice that neither Divya nor Hank put forth my theory as a possibility. They've always been honest with me, especially Hank. We've talked about tough subjects before. Wouldn't they try to prepare me if there was a significant chance of it?

My heartbeat starts to even out a bit, but in the back of my head I wonder why we still don't know anything. Is it just me, or is it taking a really long time? Hank did say we'd have the results this morning, didn't he? I'll just feel a lot less anxious when I know for sure what happened. Maybe.

* * *

Dad and Hank return a little while later, and Divya heads out to do a couple of follow-up visits with patients that were unwilling to reschedule, leaving all the Lawson men in one room for the first time since… well, I guess since last night when I was brought in here, if I'm being technical. Ok, it's the first time since all the Lawson men have been awake and halfway coherent in the same room and not tried to kill each other. Both of them seem to be in reasonably good moods. On the one hand, this is fantastic since they aren't at each other's throats for once. On the other hand, it's a little creepy, since they've been at each other's throats for, like, _ever._ I'm not sure I can get used to this. Maybe more morphine would help…

"Evan, son, it's so good to see you alert," Dad says, an expression of genuine relief on his face. "You scared the hell out of me yesterday."

"Sorry, Dad," I apologize, yet again, even though Hank said it wasn't my fault the rupture occurred. "I guess I owe you big time; if you hadn't come over when you did, I don't know what I would have done."

"I'd rather not think about what that outcome would have been," Dad says shuddering.

"You know… you don't have to lurk in the doorway," I say. He's been standing as far back as he can, still looking out of place and slightly uncomfortable. "You could come a little closer."

"I… I don't want to mess anything up," he stammers, waving his hands in front of him, gesturing vaguely to my entourage of tubes.

"You won't hurt me. It's ok."

Hank speaks up. "Eddie, it's fine," he encourages. "Just be careful." I guess he was waiting for Hank's permission above anything else, because he slowly moves closer to my bed until he's right next to me. He puts his hand on my cheek, the way he did yesterday at the guest house. Only this time, I'm not shuddering and shivering. His hand is still very warm though, just like it was then. "I knew you had to make it," he murmurs, almost to himself. "God wouldn't give me one son back, and then take the other from me. I knew he wouldn't…" Eddie looks at me with a kind of misty verklempt-ness. He looks at me for a long time, like he's trying to memorize me before I fade away. Hank comes a little closer and watches us both, and he seems kind of fuzzy-eyed too.

Things are getting a little too serious here. I decide to break the silence. "You guys need some Kleenex or something?" Dad chuckles a bit at me, patting my cheek, before clearing his throat and addressing us both in his normal, confident tones.

"It's almost lunchtime and I'm starved. You boys hungry? I could go get us something."

Hank nods, and actually I'm a little peckish, too. Ice chips aren't very filling. While I don't think I could eat much, I could definitely nibble on something about now. "You know, I could really go for-"

"Some Jello?" Hank interjects, looking at me pointedly. I frown.

"No, I was going to say that-"

"You could really go for some nice lime Jello? That's great! Since that's what you'll be eating for the next day or two at least."

"I hate Jello," I grumble, glaring at my brother's mock enthusiasm.

"Aw, come on, son. There's always room for Jello," Dad says in a chipper voice. Did he seriously just say that? Both Hank and I give him odd looks. He shrugs. "What? There is. It's a very light snack, not a lot of calories…" Holy crap, is he saying I'm fat? But it's _water weight_! That's what Hank said!

"Oh God, fine, I'll eat the damn Jello. But make it orange Jello. Not lime." I wrinkle my nose in disgust.

Both Hank and Dad giggle at me. "Grumpy little patient, isn't he?" Dad says to Hank.

"Just wait until he actually starts feeling better." Oh, well, isn't _this _special. Common ground, indeed.

After promising to bring Hank a turkey club and me some… orange Jello (and I swear to God, if he brings me lime, I will flatline right here in front of him just to teach him and Hank a lesson), Eddie takes his leave. Hank opens the duffel bag he carried in with him, and paws through it. "Brought you some things – toothbrush, underwear, a bathrobe for when you can finally get up-"

"Laptop?" I ask hopefully. Hank looks at me incredulously so I guess that's a no.

"Are you serious? You can't even sit up right now and you think you're going to do work?" He says the word 'work' like it's something you do with a hooker.

"Well… not right this _second_, but eventually, I'd like to-"

"Nope. Sorry, bro. Not going to happen."

"Well, what else am I going to do in here?"

"Um, rest? Recover from the surgery you just had that saved your life? I'm just spitballing here." Oh, Hank and his sarcasm.

I put on the best pout I can manage. "But I'm siiiiick!" I whine. Hank places some magazines on the nightstand, calmly ignoring my feeble tantrum.

"Not helping your case here. You're _siiiiick_, so the last thing you need is to start stressing about work. Besides, don't you think you should wait until your sausage-fingers slim down a bit before trying to type?"

"Hey! Harsh toke, dude!" I say indignantly, and my beloved, sensitive brother just smirks. No computer, making me eat stupid Jello, teasing me about being a fatty-fat fatpants – I feel like I've been grounded…

There's a knock at the door, and both our heads swivel as a tall doctor strides in, a long white lab coat over blue surgical scrubs. He utters a politely casual "good morning."

"Dr. Kirkland," Hank says, stepping forward. They shake hands, and then Hank turns to me and says, "Ev, this is Dr. Kirkland. He performed your surgery yesterday." Oh, ok. Wow. So does this mean… it's time?

"Evan, good to see you awake," Dr. Kirkland says to me. "How's your pain today? On scale of 10?"

"Um, I guess maybe a… 7… and a half… with fluctuations up to 9," I say. That silly scale. I've seen illustrations of those things, with those little faces. It's so stupid – I mean, there's like no difference at all between zero and 1 and the face at number 10 has tears and a frown, like someone hurt number 10's feelings and now it's crying. And why does it just go up to 10? There are many, many fine gradations of pain. If I had created the pain scale, it would go up to maybe 50, with 1 being, like, tweezing a hair, 50 being flayed alive and set on fire with acid. What I went through yesterday would be like a 46. Eaten by a shark would be a 44…

"-around 4 this morning." Whoops, Hank's talking, and it sounds like he's telling the tale of my epic pain rant. Great. Better pay attention now, especially if Dr. Kirkland is getting ready to explain what on earth happened to make my gland go boom.

"Are those my test results?" I ask tentatively, inclining my head to the file he holds in his hands. The file which holds my fate.

"Yes, it is. Sorry for the delay – I know I said I'd have them to you first thing this morning, Hank, but I wanted to consult a specialist for another opinion." Oh hell, why did he need a second opinion? Is it that complex? Man, I feel like I'm about to throw up.

The door opens again, and a petite brunette doctor in her late forties briskly enters. "Here she is now," Dr. Kirkland says. "This is my colleague, Dr. Margaret Bowers. I asked her to join us so we could discuss the labs."

"Sorry to be late – I had to answer a page," she extends her hand to Hank, who introduces himself, and then introduces me and _oh my God_, I can't believe this is turning into the social hour. Normally I'm all for schmoozing but for the love, can we just get down to it so I know whether I'm going to die next week or in fifty years? Why, why, why does a specialist need to be present? Like, is her specialty adrenal glands, or… what?

My palms are sweating, and suddenly I feel the same way I did the day my mother died. I was in history class when the principal of the middle school came to my classroom and pulled me out. The rest of the class, believing me to be in trouble, did that communal under-their-breath "oooh" thing, as if to say to me, _'You're gonna get it now! What did you do?' _Usually, if I got into trouble at school, I would be sent _to _the principal in her office, but this was the first time she had ever come to me. I had a really bad feeling about that. And it was not so much that I was worried about what I had done to warrant such a visit, because I had been on a streak of good behavior. With Mom being so sick, not only did I not want to annoy her or Hank, I also just didn't have the energy to misbehave. No… what terrified me to my core was more the fear that I wasn't in trouble at all. As we walked in silence to her office, I remember my stomach churning so bad I was scared I'd throw up all over her shoes. Then when I saw Hank, who should have been over at the high school doing his thing, standing there waiting for me, holding back tears in his already red eyes… and I knew. I have that same feeling as I did then, walking down that hallway to that office. I feel like I'm about to hear something I don't want to hear, that will rip my life as I know it apart at the seams. And like my mother's death, it's something that, deep down, I knew was coming.

I can't stand it anymore. "Nice to meet you," I say quickly, and then it just rolls out of my mouth, without preamble, with no semblance of tact or delicacy. "Do I have cancer?"

I feel Hank go rigid by my side. "Evan!" he blurts, his voice a mixture of astonishment, annoyance, horror and concern. I don't know what he's thinking, or how my question makes him feel, because I can't look at him, though I get the feeling he's staring at me with his mouth hanging open. I only look at the doctors in front of me, watching their faces, trying to see their reactions. I've clearly surprised them with my bluntness. I've surprised myself actually. I guess as much as I'm terrified of the answer, as much as I don't want to know, the desire to get it over with is greater.

Kirkland and Bowers exchange a glance with each other. Then addressing me, Bowers says in a voice so kind and sympathetic I almost shatter into a million pieces, "Yes, Evan. I'm afraid you do."

I feel Hank suddenly shrink beside me, his shoulders slumping.

I feel breath fly from my lungs.

I feel the blood pound in my ears.

Is this what my mother felt when she first heard these words? This numbness, this emptiness, this feeling of having just stepped off a cliff and now falling into an abyss with no bottom? Oh God… I'm just like Mom. This… _thing_… is inside my body – I suddenly feel like I'm rotting from the inside out. I knew it would turn out this way. And yet, I'm slightly astonished because as convinced as I was that it would be cancer, I still… I still sort of thought they'd tell me it wasn't. I didn't realize I was still harboring so much hope for myself…

I blindly fumble for something to hold onto, and instinctively find Hank's hand. I latch on, and even though the grip hurts my swollen fingers, and probably hurts him too, I cling on. He silently holds my hand equally tightly.

"Oh," I whisper, my voice having abruptly left me. It's a royally stupid response to this news. It may be the stupidest response I've ever given to anything in my entire life… but I can't think of anything else to say.

_To Be Continued... _

* * *

**Author's Note#2: ***ducks rotten tomatoes and projectile carrots* Sorry, sorry! Don't be mad at me! Details to follow! *dodges incoming pumpkin*


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: ***tiptoes in, looking furtively around for any readers armed with veggies of destruction.*

Um, it's me. Hi. I come bearing a new chapter. It was getting really loooooooooong, so I decided I needed to divide it up into another 2-parter POV. There's a lot of... internal stuff going on in this chapter. External stuff, too, but a lot of internal stuff. I wanted it to be as honest as possible, so as a result, it's very angsty. It's also very much true to life, IMO, in terms of what someone experiences when they learn a family member has cancer (drawn a lot from personal experience). There will be humor to be had, but in the immediate aftermath, it's a little sticky. So bear with me, please.

Thank you for your patience and your understanding and your willingness to read on. *quickly uploads chapter and scurries back out, because one reader is holding corncobs and this strikes fear into the heart*

* * *

**Hank**

As a doctor, I encounter a fair amount of hero-worship from various individuals, generally ones I happen to pull back from the brink of death. What no one really knows is what an unimaginable coward I can be. If anyone knew the sort of things that go through my head sometimes… Like right now. Right now, I want to do many irrational things. I want to bolt from this room and go hide in a cave somewhere and never look back. I want to punch both of these nice, sympathetic doctors in the throat for dropping their evil news in here. I want to dash into the hallway and scream an astonishing list of obscenities to every human being in this building. I want to shake my little brother and demand to know why he didn't tell me what he was afraid of, why he had to just blurt it out that way when _I_ had been too afraid to mention it, for I had suspected the same outcome. I want to find some way of punishing myself for not being completely honest with him… for being so wrapped up in my own fear, so concerned about keeping him calm and optimistic, that I didn't have a chance to prepare him at all… and for not being able to keep this sinister thing from invading his body. I want to rail at whatever deity decided to bestow cancer on my little brother. I want to physically claw the cancer out of his body and crush it beneath my feet like a bug. I want to forbid Evan to die… ever.

But I can't do any of these things at this moment, because I'm the rational one. I have to maintain that persona and listen to every word the doctor says. Because that's what the rational brother does. It's what I have to do, because Evan doesn't know medicine – I see his knuckles turning white as he death-grips his sheets, wringing every possibility from the "c-word," that awful word that somehow managed to find us again after all these years.

He's thinking about our mother. He's thinking he's just like her. I know it, because I am too, I have been thinking it since last night, and we seem to be weirdly, horribly in sync today.

Evan is not like Mom. He can't be like Mom. I forbid it; it's that simple.

I look at Dr. Bowers, now understanding why she is there. She's an oncologist - that is her "specialty." That is why Kirkland brought her in here. Her eyes have that patented expression oncologists get when they have to deliver those devastating words: _You have cancer. _How many times has she done this before?

Dr. Kirkland speaks to us through our mutual stupor. "The adrenal gland itself did not rupture, as we originally thought. There was a large cancerous tumor on the gland, and it was the tumor that ruptured, destroying the gland in the process. Given the size of it, it was probably brewing for months." He hands me some of the paperwork in his file, assuming I wish to look it over. But I'm too busy praying that this is treatable. I don't think I can process anything scientific right now, plus oncology is not my area. That really sticks in my craw – that Evan would be diagnosed with something I am not qualified to treat. My little brother is sick with a frightening, serious illness, and I'm helpless in the face of this. Just as I was with Mom. It's like I'm fifteen all over again.

"But the news is good: we got it out," Kirkland continues confidently.

"You're sure?" I ask quickly, before Evan can comment. Can it be? They've gotten it all out in one fell swoop, and it's… going to be ok? Do I dare be optimistic?

"Yes. We removed the entire thing during the surgery. In a weird way, the hemorrhaging episode wound up being a positive thing. The surrounding tissues we biopsied showed no abnormalities. The rupture occurred while the tumor was still confined to the gland, before it metastasized." He addresses Evan. "If this hadn't happened, the tumor would have continued to grow unchecked, eventually spreading into the rest of your body. But it could have been months before you showed any symptoms that would have pointed to cancer."

"Why did it pop to begin with?" I force myself to ask, feeling like something is sitting on my larynx, constricting my throat. Again, cancer not being my area, I am woefully uninformed as to what causes tumors to hemorrhage. Suddenly, it dawns on me that I, the brother with the medical degree, just asked why it "popped." Evan's terminology must have gotten stuck in my head. It sounds funny and whimsical when he says it, but I have a feeling I merely sound like an ignorant noob.

"Don't really know. There was no evidence of infection or trauma. We ran just about every test in the book, but at this point, I can't give you a concrete medical reason why this particular episode happened. Sometimes we see things like this. You could call it a miracle if you want. I think that someone or something out there is looking out for you, Evan." Kirkland emphasizes to my brother, who looks like a lost child.

He blinks rapidly a few times. "So… you're saying this is… good?" He manages to utter these hesitant words in a remarkably clear voice.

Bowers steps closer and speaks up now. "It's very, very good, Evan. It's the best news we could have in a situation like this. I would like run a few more tests. Once your circulation and blood volume stabilize, I'll get some more bloodwork, and I'd like to get some full-body scans to make sure there are no other hot spots brewing anywhere that could potentially turn into something further down the road. And you'll need these scans every three months or so for the next few years to make sure nothing new crops up."

"What if you find something on the scans?" Evan asks hesitantly. Clearly, he's scared, but I'm amazed that he's able to ask coherent questions right now – normally, I would expect him to either be babbling incoherently from stress, or retreating into himself and being completely silent. How is it that he is clear-headed and reasonably calm at this moment, while I – the rational brother – can barely speak without sounding like a meathead?

"Well, the next step would be to biopsy the area. Depending on the results, as well as the size and location, we'd see if it could be as easily removed as this one. But that's a worst-case scenario. As Dr. Kirkland said, the surrounding areas that were biopsied during the operation showed no cancerous cells. I doubt we'll find anything suspicious, but we have to check.

"Now, the surgery removed the entire tumor, but regardless of whether we find any other spots, I'm going to recommend a course of radiation. I don't believe chemotherapy is necessary at this point, but the radiation is added insurance, to wipe out any cells that could be lurking around." She looks seriously at Evan, but her voice is filled with confidence. "Your chances of beating this completely are excellent, Evan, and I want this to be a permanent cure for you."

"But it will…" Evan trails off, then seems to change his approach. "How sick will it make me?" Oh, Evan… still thinking of Mom. Wondering if the treatments will wreak havoc on his body the way it did with her.

Bowers answers before I can find my voice. "Radiation won't affect your body the way chemo would. With the dosage you'd be getting, the biggest side effect is fatigue. It'll wipe you out, especially as you near the end of the treatments, and you might possibly experience some appetite changes. But it's not like chemo." She pauses, then puts a reassuring hand on Evan's shoulder, and says in a confidential voice. "I've read your medical history. I know what your mother went through. I promise you, Evan – it's not going to be like that for you." Evan purses his lips and nods in understanding, and I want to kiss this lady for seeing where his – _our_ – thoughts were going and pulling us back to the reality.

Taking a deep breath, Evan raises his astonishingly clear eyes to Dr. Bowers, and says quietly, "When can we start the treatments?" And I almost want to smile. Almost.

Bowers grins and shakes her head. "We're going to need to wait until you've recovered from the surgery… at least a month. But I like that attitude, Evan. That's half the battle right there. Keep that up."

Dr. Kirkland examines Evan's surgical incisions, making sure they're beginning to heal properly. Dr. Bowers schedules MRIs and bloodwork for the following day, and hands me some literature on cancer FAQs. Then, when we have no other questions to ask them, they exit together, leaving us alone in a heavy, drained silence. Evan does not look at me, and for some reason, I can't quite meet his eyes either. Neither of us talks for several minutes. Rubbing my sweaty palms on my pants, I search every corner of my mind for the right words to say; my thoughts are so jumbled right now, mentally making lists of people to call, questions I should have asked earlier and will have to ask the next time I see Bowers, research I need to do so that I will be in the know, and of course, blanketing all of this is my fear, which still threatens to choke me. Focus, Hank. They said it was treatable. Now I need to snap out of it and be the rational brother. I can't be his doctor, so rational brother is the only role I have now. So come on – start being rational!

Before I can even attempt to form words in my head, Evan suddenly speaks up. "Well, this is turning into the worst weekend ever! I'd kind of like a do-over." His tone is neutral enough, as if he's been dealing with a series of minor misfortunes such as oversleeping, blowing a tire, losing keys, or stubbing a toe. It blows my mind that he could say something so blasé, trying to be funny after getting hit with this unimaginable news…

But then, isn't that what he's always done? He did it with Mom – reverting to humor when things were at their darkest. He did it for her and for me, as much as for himself. Though at the time I frequently acted annoyed with him, believing that he wasn't taking Mom's illness seriously enough, later on I realized how crucial those moments of light had been for us. I only recently got around to telling Evan how happy he had made our mother while she was sick; that it was about twenty years too late is to my shame.

What winds up finally coming out of my mouth, though, is a strained, barely-audible "When did you start to suspect…?" And I could kick myself. Of all the things I could say right now, I choose _that_? What the hell is my problem? I couldn't pick something more comforting, something more positive, more encouraging?

Vaguely shaking his head a little, Evan says in a low voice, "I don't know… since earlier this morning, I guess."

"You just sat on this fear all morning long? Why didn't you bring it up before?" The thought of Evan churning over this possibility for hours, not telling anyone, bearing the weight of this worry all on his own – even though I was right beside him, trying avoid thoughts of the exact same thing – how had he done it? _Why _had he done it?

"Same reasons you didn't, I imagine…" Evan replies. There is nothing accusatory or angry in his voice, but I know now that he had known my fears, had sensed my dread all along. And I'm caught like an escaping prisoner, with a giant searchlight illuminating my cowardice.

I begin to explain. "I didn't want to frighten or worry you unnecessarily. You're recovering from a rough surgery, and I wanted to avoid any additional stress. And I guess I just… didn't want to put it out there." I take a shaking breath, trying to quell the feeling that my emotions are about to explode clean out of my chest. "But I should have… I should have told you. I should have talked to you honestly about the possibility. But I didn't… because I was scared…" So instead I hid. He asked me outright what I thought had caused his hemorrhage, and I pulled an answer out of my ass. Yes, sure, it was a viable diagnosis, but it wasn't the only one, and it wasn't the one my mind kept dwelling on. But I shut away the fear that Evan could have the same illness that took our mother's life, never once considering that he would suspect anything was amiss, and I left my brother hanging in the cold. My little brother… who has cancer. My brother has cancer. _My brother… _Suddenly, my eyes are on fire. When I speak, my voice is thick, and words tumble off my tongue with no sort of control. "God, I should have… I never… forgive me, Evan. I'm so, so sorry. Oh God, please forgive me..."

To my surprise, Evan suddenly begins struggling to raise himself, pain written all over his face at the movement. Instantly, I'm by his side as I try to push him back down again, my own angst forgotten for the moment. "Evan, stop! What're you doing?"

"I want to sit up-" he grunts, and before I can stop him he pulls off the nasal cannula in frustration. I attempt to grasp his hands before he tries to disentangle himself from any of the other medical devices that are holding him down.

"Quit it! You're going to hurt yourself, you need to be still-"

"No!" He glares at me, not with anger at me, but with eyes bright with desperation and fury that his body has been invaded without his permission. "Hank, I just got told I had a grotty, nasty tumor growing inside me for months which totally tried to kill me yesterday, and I'm scared to death and my big brother is upset. Now I don't give a rat's ass if it hurts, I am going to sit up right now, and you are going to shut the hell up and give me a hug! Damn it, I want love right NOW!" he bellows with strength I didn't think he currently possessed, his pale face flushed. Well, if your sick brother wants love, you give him love, right? Especially when he looks like he might levitate if you make any attempt to stop him.

I raise the bed several inches to take some of the strain off of Evan's sore and swollen body, and then sit carefully down beside him and pull him into an embrace. Though I know it must be physically agonizing for him, he clings tightly to me, and I do the same. It is as though we are kids again, right after Mom had died, when we held onto each other, each of us totaling the other's whole world.

We remain locked together in silence for several minutes, and when I feel Evan shudder with pain, I attempt to pull away to give his body some relief. But he digs his fingers deeper into my shirt and he prevents me from breaking the embrace. "Not yet," he whispers. I feel moisture on my neck, and I know that his tears have finally begun flowing. My own are freely sliding down my face, but I make no effort to wipe them away, because it would mean letting go of him. Neither of us is ready to do that.

"Hank, I know they said, they said they got it all out of me… but I'm… I'm still scared," Evan eventually says quietly, his voice sort of muffled by my shoulder.

"I know, Ev," I say softly. "I know you're scared; I am, too. You just heard one of the scariest words in the English language applied to you. I'd actually be pretty worried if you weren't scared. But we have to stay positive. Your prognosis is incredibly good."

"Yeah," Evan says feebly, finally breaking the hug. I pull back from him a little, and he takes the opportunity to rub his face, wiping away his tears. He's red-eyed and a bit sniffly, but then I am, too. "But how do they know they got it all? If the tumor is what popped, wouldn't it leak all of the… the, you know… the cancer juice into my body?"

_Cancer juice? _Um, yick. Sheesh, the things my brother comes up with… That may be one of the grossest things I've ever had the misfortune to imagine. I try not to visibly cringe. "It doesn't work like that. The only thing that leaked from the tumor was blood."

"What if it comes back?"

"It won't." Seeing his next question forming, and not wanting to make the same mistake as I did earlier, I hurry to add, "But _if_ it did, we would treat it again. That's what those follow-up scans are for – to monitor you every few months and make sure no more tumors develop."

"I mean…" he swallows. "I haven't even felt sick. My back had only been hurting for a week, but it wasn't _bad _or anything. If it hadn't popped when it did, I would have…That… thing was growing in me since… it was all stealthy, and I didn't even know it was there. Geez, Hank, this was like… like a _ninja tumor_." Evan looks at me with wide, wet eyes. I don't think he means it to sound as funny or as strange as it does, but I can't disguise the twitch in my lip, and the oddness of his words dawn on him, and he gives a feeble chuckle.

Then Evan sniffs, gives a long, shuddering breath, and looks directly in my eyes with a fierce determination burning in them. "Ok," he says, and wipes away the last of his tears. He repeats his "Ok," with his voice now carrying more strength and calmness. "The time for crying is over now. All done. The doctors said I'm going to make it through this, so now is the time to fight it. I'm officially saying it out loud, with you as my witness: I'm beating this thing."

"Yeah, you are!" I grin through my tears, and my worry is replaced with growing pride in my little brother's strength. That's the attitude we need now, so it's high time I pulled myself together as well. "You already have."

"I'm kicking its ass."

"To the curb!" I proclaim, with more fervor.

"I'm going to laugh in its stupid, ugly _ninja_ _tumor face_!"

"Ha HA!" I sound oddly like Speed Racer, but I don't care. For each declaration of Evan's, I reply with an addendum of support. He's not alone in this. He will never be alone, not as long as I have anything to say about it.

Evan's energetic declarations and his efforts at movement have their consequences. As his adrenaline eventually fades, the pain of his surgery washes over him, and he sinks back into his pillow, with a sheen of sweat adding to the moisture left by his tears. The stress and the heightened emotion of the past hour have completely drained him of what little strength he has. I take advantage of his weakness to give him a little more morphine and readjust the nasal cannula he had pulled away. As I'm doing these things, Evan asks quietly, "Do you think it was Mom?"

Puzzled, I pause. "What was Mom?"

"Dr. Kirkland said he didn't know why the tumor popped. He said someone was looking out for me. Do you think it was Mom?"

I have no idea how to answer this. I don't put much stock in the supernatural, I don't believe in ghosts, and I don't know how plausible it is that after so many years, our mother would reach out from the great beyond and cause her youngest son a medical crisis so that we would discover the cancer sooner. Then again, Kirkland was stumped as to why the rupture had occurred. And… Eddie just stopped by the guesthouse on a whim, even after his calls went unanswered, and was able to save Evan. I breathe heavily. I'm wise enough to admit that my knowledge has limits, and some things aren't answerable. "I don't know, Ev. Maybe you're right." This satisfies him and he seems peaceful.

After my meager ministrations, Evan reaches for my hand once again. "I know you have people to tell…" he says meekly, and I am reminded that Jill and Divya and Eddie don't know about the diagnosis yet. I dread telling them, especially Dad. "But… could you just sit with me for a bit? Just until the morphine kicks in and I fall asleep?"

Not that I had been planning to, but how could I refuse such a request? "Of course, Ev. Now just try to rest, ok? I'm right here."

"Thank you, Hank… for being here. I know this even harder for you than it is for me," (How can he think that?) "and I want you to know, I love you. No matter what else happens."

"I love you, too, Evan." I look down at our hands, because if I meet his eyes again, I won't be able to contain the blubbering that lies just beneath my surface. I know it won't be long before the meds override his stress and anxiety and send him into what will hopefully be an easy, healing sleep. I thank God for the drugs, because with the morning's events, I don't think there would be any way Evan could ever sleep again without them. Rest is what he needs most right now, physically and mentally.

I sit on the edge of his hospital bed, holding his hand as his eyelids gradually grow heavier. We don't say much else to each other, but then we don't need to. I feel as though Evan has forgiven me for not telling him I feared cancer, even though the actual words are not spoken. I quietly resolve to be completely open and honest with him from now on. Even if the subject is difficult or frightening… I underestimated the depth of Evan's perception before. I don't know why I did so, but I did, and it was wrong to believe he would be better off if I left him in the dark. As long as I can help it, I won't ever allow him to be stuck alone with his fears again. He will not fight this alone.

Once Evan's breathing becomes slow and even, I know he is asleep. I wait for just a few minutes, then I carefully get up and leave the room as silently as I can manage. Once out into the hallway, I pull out my cell phone, and hit the speed dial. Divya's voicemail delivers its clipped, professional message to my ear, and as evenly as possible, I say "Divya, it's Hank. Please call me as soon as you get this message." I can't tell her in a voicemail. I'm not even sure I can do it on the phone. As it is, I must tell Eddie face to face... and if need be, sit on him to prevent him from jumping out the window and heading for the hills. I feel my chest getting tight again, and I hurry out to the nearest stairwell.

Once I am certain I am alone, the tears come again. Not gently flowing tears of commiseration like the ones I shed with Evan. No, these are hard, burning sobs churning up from my gut like vomit, threatening to turn me inside out. These are MY tears, my own personal anguish. I'm glad the stairwell is deserted, because I'm crying with noise.

I know I should be grateful that Evan's prognosis is so optimistic. This could have been much worse, on so many levels. With the surgery he is already, like, 80% cured. And if the radiotherapy goes smoothly, this may just be a blip in the radar for him. But… it freaks me the hell out. Even more than being scared, I'm also just plain MAD. _This _was not supposed to happen. Not to Evan, not to _my _brother. Not to us. It isn't right or fair or just. Haven't we already paid our dues to this stupid disease? Why did have to be him? He doesn't deserve this!

A tremendous part of me wishes that I had been the one to receive this diagnosis, and not Evan. But I must be careful to never tell him this. First of all, he would kill me for even imagining it, because in such a scenario our roles would be reversed. He would be the one who would have to sit back helplessly, passively, and watch me suffer through it. I don't want that either. Secondly, it would sound as if I believe myself to be stronger than my brother, somehow better equipped to handle it. This is not true. In fact, it's quite the opposite. From what I saw today – the way Evan quieted his fear and tried to infuse me with confidence, the way he asked the majority of questions when the doctors were here, the way he allowed himself to have his moment of weakness before pulling himself together and _choosing _to be positive; all of this is both the most astonishing and yet the most normal, most Evan-ish behavior I've ever seen from him. The truth is, I was the first one to fall apart, and I am the one who is still falling apart now. I have failed the test.

I keep telling myself it's not like before. Mom was completely different. When they found Mom's tumor, it had already spread, and surgery couldn't remove it all. She needed aggressive chemotherapy at the outset, and it was torture for her. And in the end, it was also ineffective. But Dr. Bowers said that chemo wasn't necessary for Evan. Even if it was, cancer treatments have come so far since Mom's bout, Evan would not necessarily suffer the way she did. So Bowers was right: he's not going to be like Mom. The worst of this is behind us already.

So then, why do I feel so helpless? Why do I feel so weak and useless and… and… _crippled _in the face of this? I don't want this. I don't know if I can go through it again… especially if… things go wrong. But they can't. I'm just not done with Evan yet.

My brother was right: worst weekend ever.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: **Thanks for your patience (and not throwing raw veggies at me for doing this to Evan - for all the "whumping" that goes on with this poor guy, I'm a little surprised no one beat me to the punch on this particular "whump-agent"). School is back in session, and I have a more hectic teaching schedule than usual, involving teaching on two different campuses. I'm hoping I will be able to post a chapter a week now that things have settled into their routine.

It's definitely AU by now - when I began this, it was post-Cuba arc, but I didn't know there would be a Paige, or anything like that. I think we can safely say that it's gone up through "In Vino Veritas" but then veered off into it's own world. There MIGHT be Peck, but I doubt there will be Paige, if that makes any sense. Let me know if it doesn't. ;)

Still Hank's POV for this chapter.

* * *

**Hank**

I take some time to pull myself together before venturing out of the stairwell and back into the intensive care ward. I still feel very drippy, though. I could probably stand a visit to the men's room – splash a little water on my face, fix the hair and the clothes, and see if I can't adjust my expression into something halfway resembling bravery. When I see our various friends and loved ones, I would really prefer that they didn't take one look at me and assume Evan had a massive coronary and croaked in their absence. As I head in the direction of the restrooms, I am brought up short when a familiar voice calls my name. I turn to see Boris Kuester von Jurgens-Ratenicz, of all people, approaching me.

"Boris," I acknowledge, unable to disguise my surprise. "I wasn't aware you were back."

"I actually just arrived." And he came straight here from his jet to Hampton's Heritage? "Dieter contacted me yesterday evening to report some sort of medical crisis at Shadow Pond. He was a bit unnerved at seeing the ambulance and then finding the guesthouse deserted. He said he tried to contact you, but you were nowhere to be found." I dimly remember tossing my phone aside yesterday when I finally reached Evan. I picked it up when I went home to change this morning, but I neglected to actually check and see if I had any messages or missed calls. I figured Divya was fielding any HankMed business, and I just assumed that would be the only reason anyone would call. Aww, Dieter… "After hearing his report, I made arrangements to return home first thing in the morning. I must say, I'm relieved to see you in good health, Hank – clearly the ambulance wasn't for you." He frowns and searches my face, which must look physically and emotionally drained. "Your brother…?" he asks quietly, letting the unspoken question linger in the air.

I close my eyes and nod wearily. "Yeah. He's… sick."

"I hope it isn't serious?" Here we go. For a man who values privacy as much as Boris does, he sure does like to pry. Then again, I suppose he has to wonder if Evan suffered some crazy accident on his property, making him vulnerable to a lawsuit or something.

"Well, I might as well tell you. You'll probably find out eventually anyway – you've got more connections than an airport," I mutter. Better he hear it directly from me, rather than some inflated piece of gossip from the Hamptons rumor mill. I'm slightly perplexed by the fact that the first person I'm technically telling about my brother's condition is _Boris_. He has always been graciously tolerant of my brother, I think mainly because he's _my_ brother, but I've never gotten the impression that he bears much affection for Evan on his own. It's not that he hates Evan, or even that he dislikes him – I don't think that's the case. I think it's more that Evan doesn't serve his purposes, so he doesn't bear much notice. I steel myself. "Evan… has cancer." I need to practice not stumbling over _"the word"_ – hopefully, by the time I tell Eddie, I will exude confidence and optimism. I need some more practice, though, because it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I visibly wince at the feeling.

Boris exhales slowly and studies me, but his fundamental expression does not change. It rarely does. There is no indication of shock or horror on his face, but I can tell from the exhalation that he is stunned by the news and perhaps is not sure how to proceed with me. "I know people, Hank," he says at last.

"Um, yes, I'm aware of that," I reply, a bit confused. That was not what I was expecting. "You probably know _most _people."

But he continues as if I haven't spoken. "As I told you previously, I have been all over the world in an effort to treat my own illness. The doctors I have met have important colleagues; they have many connections and access to all sorts of clinical trials and research. I have heard of an oncology clinic in Norway which has an experimental procedure in the works; there is a renowned surgeon in Montreal, one facility in Switzerland that has made great strides in cancer-treating drugs..." He lists these things on separate fingers. Then he looks at me and sees my blank gaze, realizing I still haven't gotten the point. "Hank, I can make introductions for you, pull a few strings. I can aid you financially, if you require it. And of course, you and Evan may have unlimited access to my jet – anywhere you need to go to obtain the treatment he needs…"

I stand silent and stunned. He would offer all this to me… to us? Of course, he doesn't even know that Evan's prognosis makes such a magnanimous offer unnecessary. "Wow. Boris," I manage to say. "I don't know what to say. That is incredibly kind of you, and I'm so amazed and… gosh, just _grateful_ that you would be so generous and openhanded with us…"

"It is the least I can do, after the attention and care you have given me."

"…. And if the situation were direr, I would probably take you up on it, but Evan's prognosis is actually really good. It's treatable. With the crisis we had yesterday, they were able to catch it very early, and they've actually already removed the whole tumor. He'll need a course of radiation, but the doctors are very confident he will beat this."

"And are _you_ confident, Hank?"

"Y-Yeah, I am," I answer, nodding quickly. I feel as though Boris is taking in my red eyes and tear-stained face and shirt, and I wish that my appearance didn't so blatantly betray how badly I took the news. "We literally just found out a little while ago. Evan and I… we're a little shell-shocked from the whole thing, but he's optimistic and ready to fight it with all he has. So that's really the most important thing. It's very treatable –"

"Yes, you've mentioned that." Boris eyes me with that discerning gaze of his, and I wonder if he believes my adamant, rambling insistence that Evan will be fine. "I'm very sorry to hear of this news, but I am glad he is in good spirits. I would imagine nothing less from him. Human beings are creatures of hope at their cores, and I believe your brother will find a well of untapped strength to see him through this. There surely will be moments of fear, of despair, and of frustration for him, but if he can still maintain his usual… buoyancy… in the midst of this unfortunate event, then I think you have every reason to be optimistic."

It amazes me that Boris seems to have pinpointed Evan's behavior so accurately, given how little he really knows him. "Yeah… he actually took the news much better than I did," I admit with a sheepish smile. Boris nods in understanding.

"I know what it's like to get a frightening diagnosis, and I also know what it's like to stand by and watch a loved one suffer. There are moments when being the witness can be the harder role, wouldn't you say?" I realize it's a rhetorical question. I recall what Evan said earlier, that he knew this was harder on me than it was on him. I can't say if he's right, though. I don't dare presume to elevate my position in this drama over Evan's, or to minimize what he's feeling about all of this… _he's_ the one that has to deal with all the aspects of this illness: the physical AND the emotional. There's no way I can compare my turmoil and fear with his. I can only regret that I am not being as strong for him as I wish to be… as I should be. That is the only point on which I would say I am suffering more than he is – in my disappointing lack of courage.

Boris must soon take his leave, but not before insisting that if we require anything at all, he and his entire staff are at our disposal. I am overwhelmed at his show of support – it is not something that I had expected from him. I mean, Boris is a gentleman, and a certain general level of sympathy and well wishes is kosher at times like this, but the offer of his assistance and the readiness with which he was hoping to provide that assistance is far more than I would have ever asked for. I know Evan will be flabbergasted – he doesn't think Boris even knows his name.

I take a moment to check on Evan, peering through the window into his room. He is still asleep. I watch him for a long time from the hallway. Evan is peaceful for now, blissfully able to find a temporary refuge from the stress of the day, thanks to all the medication he's on. But, as I'm looking at him, he seems so… young. And _fragile_. My brother is NOT a fragile guy. Nothing like this has ever happened to him before. His health has always been sound – he's had his wisdom teeth out, and broke his wrist when he took a tumble off the jungle gym in elementary school, and had a bout of mono in high school, and of course, recently knocked the crap out of his head while scuba diving in Cuba, but despite some bumps and fumbles his medical file is remarkably (and thankfully) slim. Especially when you consider he's something of a klutz. He's one of those types who "takes a licking and keeps on ticking."

We faced our mother's illness and death, but we've never confronted our own mortality. At least, I haven't, neither his nor my own. You'd think I would have at least contemplated such a subject once in a while – being an ER doctor, I have seen far too many people cut down in the prime of their lives, whether by illness, or violence, or accident. As tragic as it was, I always knew that the patient on the gurney in front of me was not Evan. _It was never Evan_. I always managed to keep that separate from my… _our_ lives. On some level, because we endured our mother's loss so early, and because I eventually became a doctor based on that event, did I think nothing would ever attack us again? Did I think that he was immune to sickness now that I had a medical degree? This time the patient in the bed _is_ my little brother. And it's not like a cold or the flu. Even with the optimistic prognosis, it's still a serious illness. One that I can't fix. I'm still not entirely sure how we found ourselves here, and it's very disconcerting.

I stop my musing, and again think I should visit the men's room and splash some water on my face. Maybe some coffee would help my nerves, too. I turn from the window and begin to walk slowly in the direction of the restrooms. And then I see him. Oh, great. Here we go…

Eddie scurries down the hall at a brisk pace, with several canvas shopping bags dangling from his arms. Seeing me, he grins widely, talking quickly before I have a chance to say a thing. "Well, Hank, my boy, I went to three different stores and I think I have completely emptied the greater Hamptons area of orange Jello. It's all in here-" he raises the bags as an indication. "I may have gone a little overboard, but if this is all Evan can have right now, I want to make sure he has enough to last him a while." With an impish look he winks at me. "I also got one thing of lime Jello, just for fun. I just want to see what he'll say."

I feel a weight landing on my shoulders in the wake of his enthusiasm. Dad is really good at this part: ostentatious shows of affection. He's always been a lavish gift-giver, even if the gifts were gotten by less than legitimate means. I'm not in the least bit surprised that he has gone out and hoarded orange Jello as if we're preparing for apocalyptic rationing conditions. That's the thing about Eddie R. I know that he loves us in his own way. He always has. He never treated us or Mom _badly. _I've actually never doubted his love for us. But it isn't the right sort of love; it isn't a father's love – not what I would expect a father's love to be, anyway. Even as kids, he wanted to be our pal more than anything else. And God help me, from what I remember, he was actually pretty fun to be with. But he simply has no idea how to be a dad; he had no idea how to be a good husband and provider either. That was the biggest part of the problem – that he left us when being a pal was no longer enough. He bailed once we needed something greater, I guess because he realized he was either incapable of being more for us, or because he was too afraid of failure.

Eddie could be less than wholesome sometimes, with an unhealthy but halfway understandable obsession with money, and because of that obsession he frequently got in over his head and you couldn't trust anything he said. But even if he was seedy, he was never _evil_. He was a louse, but not a devil; a sorry excuse for a father, but not a villain. Sometimes I think it would have been far easier for us if he _had_ been a horrible drunk/drug-user or an abusive man or something like that, something really horrible, because then we would have rejoiced when he left us. Maybe I wouldn't have become quite so bitter.

I'm really not looking forward to this. I guess my expression is too obvious, because his eager smile dims abruptly, and he lowers the surplus of Jello he was so excited to show me. He crinkles his brow studying me. "What's up with you?" he asks suspiciously.

"Dad, we need to talk."

"Evan needs his Jello," he says stubbornly. He can sense that I want to speak of something unpleasant and he wants no part of it. He attempts to walk around me, but I stop him.

"Evan is sleeping right now, Dad. We need to let him rest. He can have it when he wakes up. Let's sit down and talk, ok?" I feel as if I'm speaking to a child.

He allows me to guide him to an out-of-the-way nook in the waiting area. No one else is around. As he sits, setting his bags of Jello in front of him like a protective wall, he looks at me warily, like he's expecting me to chastise him for something. I sit across from him, nervously tearing at one of my fingernails. He's rather fidgety too. The tension is so thick I can nearly see it. "What's wrong, Hank? I know that look, I know something's wrong – what is it?"

"Dad, while you were gone, the doctors came by to see Evan. They got his test results back."

"O-kaay…."

"They had taken some biopsies of the gland they removed during the surgery, and also some samples of surrounding organs and tissues. They wanted to see exactly what caused the gland to rupture. You know, so if Evan needed any special medication or anything they could give it to him, to prevent this from ever happening again."

"Yeah… you told me all of this last night, son," Eddie says, somewhat impatiently.

"Ok. Well… the rupture was caused by a tumor on his adrenal gland. They removed it with the gland, so it's out now. But the tests showed that it's… it was malignant," I say gently, careful to change the tense so that he will understand that the tumor is truly gone, no longer in Evan's body where it would continue to spread and grow.

Dad's face goes ashen. "Tumor," he repeats, chewing the word and deciding he doesn't like the taste. I don't blame him; I didn't like it either. He holds onto my gaze, his eyes pleading for me not to say the words that I have to say. "Don't…" he says in a harsh whisper.

"Dad, listen…"

"Don't, Hank. Don't you dare tell me that after all of that insanity yesterday, Evan is…" he trails off, unable to complete the thought. He doesn't have to though – I understand what he's saying. He doesn't want me to say that after everything we went through, Evan is still going to die. I had no intention of saying such a thing, however, and I hurry to correct him before the idea that Evan is dying takes hold in his mind.

"No – Eddie, listen to me! Listen to what I'm saying. Yes, it is cancer, but it is _very_ treatable. The surgery got it all out; from here, he'll only need a bit of radiation and he'll be fine."

"It's never that simple," he whispers, balling his hands into fists. Then he mutters something else that I don't catch, but when I ask him to repeat it, he doesn't respond. He's beginning to crumble.

I've never seen such a look on my father's face before… no, wait. Yes I have. I suddenly remember when we had all gathered together for Mom to explain to Evan and me that she was sick. She had done most of the talking; Eddie had remained silent with this look on his face, the same one he has at this moment. I didn't give it much thought then, but I know it now – it was the look of utter defeat. He had given up on Mom once she was diagnosed, even before the treatment began. Seeing this look once again, I think he's giving up on Evan at this very moment. Oh God, if he shuts down now on me now, I won't be able to bring him back. "Dad? Are you listening to me?"

He begins to shake his head vigorously, and he abruptly stands up. I jump up after him, but he waves me off, refusing to let me touch him. "Don't… I can't… Hank, I'm sorry… but I just can't…."

"Eddie, stop it! You need to understand what's going on-"

"I don't think I can do this, Hank… You can't ask me to watch him die."

"Evan is not going to die!" I growl in frustration. "Not from this, and not anytime soon. That's what you need to understand! It's treatable; it's practically cured already. The tumor is gone now, and all he needs is a couple of months of radiation. Radiation, not chemo. They're confident it won't come back. He will get through this, and – God willing – this will just be a little bump in the road in the grand scheme of things." But Eddie is still shaking his head, as if he thinks I'm lying. I grab his shoulders, and I stare hard into his eyes. "Look, Dad, I know you're upset. I'm upset too. I'm completely freaked out that this is happening to Evan, and I'm not able to have any sort of control in the situation, because this is an area of medicine I'm not an expert in. So I have to trust the doctors who do know about it, and _they_ say Evan is going to be OK. They are not going to lie to us. I trust them, and Evan trusts them, and you will have to trust them, too!" I can feel him trembling as I lecture him, but I have no idea if anything I'm saying is registering in his brain. I need to make sure he hears me, because I do not want to let him see Evan if he's going to be this upset, because then Evan will get upset, and I will get upset that he made Evan upset. And then everybody will just be _upset!_

"Hank?" I turn at the sudden interruption and see that Divya has arrived and managed to sneak up on us. I let go of Dad's arms, and face her awkwardly. I see her eyes nervously darting like hummingbirds between me and my father, wondering what on earth she has just walked into. "I got your message; I was already finished with the last visit of the day, so I just came directly back here. What's going on?"

I glance at Dad who shifts uncomfortably away, rubbing his tense forehead. I step a little closer to my PA. "Divya, we found out why Evan's gland ruptured."

I think it hits her before I even say anything. She begins to blink rapidly, and she murmurs a shaky, "Oh, God, it's bad, isn't it…"

"Divya, it's cancer," I say quietly, and her hand flies up to her mouth to hold back whatever was about to pour out - a sob or a wail, a gasp or a curse – and her eyes squint as they quickly fill up with tears. I immediately launch into the second part of the spiel, hurrying to reassure her that all is not lost. "BUT it's going to be all right. He'll be ok. They got it all out, and it hasn't spread. It's out."

A tear manages to sneak out of the corner of her eye, and she impatiently wipes it away, concentrating on my voice. "They're absolutely sure they got it all?" she asks brokenly, barely allowing herself to look hopeful.

"Yes. A course of radiation, and he'll be just fine. They're very optimistic."

She gives a shuddering sigh, and sort of blindly nods her head. She seems to be regaining her calmness, though a few more shining tears drip their way down her cheeks. Again, she wipes them away. "I'm so sorry, Hank…" she whispers as she wraps her arms around my neck. I return the hug tightly, grateful for her embrace and her clear head. After a moment, she pulls back and, wide-eyed with worry, she asks, "God, what am I thinking – is Evan ok? Does he know?"

"He knows." Divya winces. "He's ok, though. I mean, he's scared, of course. But Divya… it was incredible. The way he stayed so calm and clear-headed… and I don't mean 'Evan-calm.' I mean like 'regular people-calm.'" Despite her weepy eyes, Divya rewards me with a smile and a breathy giggle at that. I continue, "And once he had asked his questions, he immediately shifted into trying to make me feel better… I was a mess, and I still am, technically. But Evan…"

"He's strong," Divya finishes for me, tearing up again, but retaining her wobbly smile. "Stronger than we give him credit for. He's being strong for you. For all of us." She sniffs, and runs a hand through her hair, lifting it back from her face which is overheated with emotion. "And we need to be strong for him, too."

I squeeze her arm, so grateful for her calming presence, so grateful that this strange summer brought her friendship to me and my brother. She has truly proven indispensible to us, and not just as an employee. I don't know what we'll do when she marries Raj and leaves us behind. Especially now. "We _will_ be strong for him. We have every reason to hope that he'll get through this and it won't ever come back. You hear me, Dad?" I say pointedly, and turn to see what he will say.

And he isn't there.

The sacks of Jello are still where he set them, by the chairs. But Dad isn't anywhere. Nowhere that I can see.

My face falls. I whirl back to face Divya, and ask, "Where'd he go?"

Surprised, she looks around us in confusion. "I don't know. He was just here. When did he leave?" Seeing the look on my face, which must appear to be a weird combination of panic, anger, frustration, and complete disbelief, she hurriedly says, "Maybe he just went to the men's room. He didn't look too good – maybe he just needed to take a moment to pull himself together?"

Sure, it's possible. I was planning on doing the same thing. But... what if he's not in the bathroom? Why would he step away without saying anything, even a simple _'Be right back_'_? _This is exactly what I was afraid of.

I send Divya in to sit with Evan. I need to find our father before he makes a move that neither of us will be able to forgive him for.

_To be continued..._


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: **Hi peeps. Sorry this chapter might seem a little short - I was originally going to post it as a chapter in which both Hank and Evan's POVs were present, but then I remembered that some people don't like that kind of perspective shift in the same chapter; besides, I thought it might get a little confusing if I did it that way, as well. BUT (and it's a big but - heehee), this means that tomorrow you will have another chapter, featuring our favorite CFO's POV.

Thanks for bearing with me!

* * *

**Hank**

I have literally been everywhere. After scrambling around the hospital, trying to see if Eddie was hiding out somewhere in there, I rush to my car and drive to his beachfront condo. God, I hope he's here. If not, I guess I'll call Mrs. Newberg next and see if she's seen him, and I might have to just drive around his local haunts. As a last ditch resort, I may have to go to his hotel suite in the city…

But I don't need to. His car is here. As I begin to climb the stairs to the condo, I glance out to the beach, and I see him down there. He's standing like a statue, hands in his pockets, facing the water. I turn and run back down the stairs, hurrying to catch him on the shore. I guess I might not need to run quite so fast – Eddie doesn't appear to be moving anywhere. I slow up as I near him. He doesn't turn, but I know he knows I'm there.

"What the hell, Dad?" I huff in irritation. "I turn my back for five minutes and you just bolt without a word? Do you have any idea what I was thinking?"

"That I was leaving," he answers dully, eyes still aimed at the horizon, squinting at the bright sun's reflection.

"You can see why I'd jump to that conclusion. _Are _you? Leaving, I mean?" He knows what I mean. He doesn't answer me… doesn't look at me. He isn't even looking out at the water anymore; instead he casts his eyes down to the sand, shuttering them from me so that I can't read what lies behind them. "Are you?" I repeat.

His lack of response tells me all I need to know. Even though he's standing here in front of me, deep down, I'm pretty sure he's already gone. And I think of my little brother lying in the hospital, aching from surgery, thinking about the reality of his illness, and wondering where his brother and his father are, and probably suspecting that his brother is trying to prevent his father from fleeing. And that overactive imagination of his might get cranked up… the last time Dad left, our mother wound up dying. He might start to wonder if Dad leaves this time, if it means that, despite all the positivity, this disease will still kill him. If Evan starts thinking that way now, he'll give up. I cannot allow that to happen; I can't let this jerk crush my brother yet again. Not now. It's too much, and I explode at the man in front of me.

"This is unbelievable! You… you _bastard_! You cowardly, selfish bastard!" I spit venomously. "You swoop in here professing remorse and atoning for your past, and it's all a… a frikkin'… _sham_! It's easy to play happy family when things are fine and you're basking in all of our success. But the minute a crisis comes and we actually NEED you, need you to step up and be a father – be a man! – you bail on us. AGAIN. You haven't changed at all – I knew it! But I still wanted it to be true, for Evan's sake." I feel no sense of triumph in learning that my initial perception of my father was correct. It's the most worthless, hollow victory I've ever had. I knew it would happen: I saw Evan welcoming him, accepting him, forgiving him, and I warned my brother he was in for a fall. But why did it have to be now, on top of everything else? I'm pacing in my anger, wishing I had something I could throw and hoping I don't give myself an aneurysm. Dad remains rooted to the ground, accepting every harsh word I hurl at him. He makes no effort to defend himself or offer any sort of explanation, so I continue to rail.

"How could you do this to him? How _dare _you do this to him now! What kind of father are you? Evan is _sick_, Eddie. That's the fact we're facing now: he has cancer. He came very close to dying this week. But he didn't die_, _and he won't. The whole thing is terrifying, I can admit that, but his prognosis is excellent. Not like with Mom – her case was much more advanced and more difficult to treat, even from the start. Evan is going to be fine. But regardless of the prognosis, he needs his family around him. For better or for worse, that includes you. So get it together and get your ass back down to the hospital to support him! I know it's thanks to you that Evan survived yesterday, and I will always be grateful that you were in the right place at the right time. But if you leave – look at me, Eddie, because I am dead serious," I say, getting into his face, pausing until he manages to raise his eyes to meet mine. My voice lowers to a threatening growl. "If you leave now, you may as well keep walking, because you will _never_ be welcome in our lives again." He flinches a bit, but still doesn't respond.

I let that sink in before I go on. "There will be no contact ever again from either of us. We got along fine without you before, we can do it again. And we will. Evan will survive this and live a long, full, happy life. I will forget you as easily as flicking off a light switch. And you will live out the rest of your miserable life and finally die alone – because you didn't care enough about your family to be there when it really mattered, no one will be there for you."

Eddie remains silent. There is no sense of defiance or denial, merely defeat. He is fully aware of his own cowardice, I can tell. I suppose he simply does not know if he can handle watching his youngest son fight the same disease that took his wife. He hadn't been able to endure that either. I feel like reiterating that Evan will survive his battle is useless in this situation. He seems to be refusing to engage me at all. I can't believe I just wasted my breath. There is no way to talk to this… person… I don't even know who this man is. Not really. And I don't want to.

"I'm done with this. I'm going back to the hospital to be with _my_ little brother. That's where I belong, and it's where I want to be. I'm not going to force you to be there. It's your decision whether you're going to come or not – I'm through trying to explain to you what family means. If you don't know by now, you never will. Come or don't come, but I hope you're prepared to live with your choice for the rest of your life." _And you can rot in hell, _I add to myself as I turn, ready to stomp away in disgust, bile rising up in my throat as I wonder what I'm going to tell Evan, how on earth I am going to pick up the pieces of his shattered heart and put him back together so that he can turn around and fight cancer. I only manage to get a few feet away before I hear a harsh, choked statement that makes me halt in my tracks.

"Is it my fault?"

I spin back around. Did he seriously just ask that, or am I hearing things? I'm not totally sure what he's referring to either. "It's your own fault you're leaving, yeah," I grumble. "That's your choice."

"No… is it my fault Evan is sick?"

"Huh?" I start inching a bit closer again. "Dad, this is cancer – you don't catch it like a cold or chicken pox. No one gave this to Evan, and you won't catch it from being around him. You know better than that."

"That's not… not what I mean…"

"Then what do you mean? You're not making any sense." I find myself growing both impatient and confused.

"I've done some bad things in my life, kiddo. Things I'm not proud of. I know you remember when I lost our savings, when you and Evan were kids. Almost right after that, your mother got sick. Now I finally get to be with my boys again after all these years, and of course the first thing I do is screw up and lose your HankMed money with some bad investing. That's why I had to come here, Hank. I had to make sure I got all of that money back to you before one of you paid the price." He swallows heavily. "I thought I had managed to do that… but I still couldn't prevent this. I cause bad things to happen to people I love."

"Wait, wait… you think this is some sort of… what, karmic revenge?" I look at him incredulously.

"What else can I think? Evan is sick… EVAN, the one who trusted me with the money to start with. Evan forgave me for my mistakes, the same way your mother forgave me for our financial fiasco years ago. But now he's sick just like… just like _she_ was." He looks at me with these eyes that are so pained, so guilty. It hits me that he's not simply making excuses – I think he actually believes both Evan's and Mom's cancers are his punishments.

"Dad, that's… stupid!" I blurt. "First of all, cancer doesn't just appear overnight. It was probably developing before we ever even thought about coming to the Hamptons, which means it was already present before you got here, before you took our money. It has nothing to do with you. Secondly, I never thought this would even need saying, but cancer is also not a mob boss – it has no concept of vengeance." I sigh. "You didn't cause this, Dad. I know – it would be so much easier if there was someone we could blame, someone who was actually responsible for Evan being sick. If there was someone I could pin this on, believe me, I would love to. It would mean there was a reason. But it's no one's fault. Not Evan's, not mine, and not yours."

"I thought… if I _was_ the reason, then maybe if I left… you said it was treatable, so maybe I could still…"

"Dad, listen to me. This is irrational. You have to see that. Your leaving will not magically cure him, just like your presence did not make him sick. Whether you stay or leave, Evan still has to fight this, he'll still go through treatment. And he will still be ok. The question is whether or not you will be there at his side while he fights."

"I… want to be," he swallows, and I feel my breath hitch in my throat. "I just… I don't know how. I don't know what to do. My… my son… my boy is sick…" Eddie looks up at me, his eyes raw, and I suddenly realize that this is the most honest he's ever been to me. There's no bravado, no smooth veneer, nothing. Nothing but fear and desperation. For the first time, I actually see my father… a mere weak human being, with all his many faults in bold relief. Is this why he left us before – irrational panic and guilt, believing that Mom's illness was a punishment for his financial carelessness? I always assumed it was selfish fear, an aversion to suffering. Maybe it was, but on some level did he truly think that removing himself from our lives would spare us further pain? I realize that I don't understand him at all – he's not what I thought he was. But I have no idea what he actually is. All I know is that he feels as powerless as I do, as much at a loss as I am. And I can't deny that he loves Evan as much as I do. He wouldn't be so overwrought if he didn't.

He sniffs, and I see he's still trembling. "Hank, I don't know what I can give to him. If I can't do it… if I fail him…"

"Dad, the only thing you would need to do is be there," I say seriously. "Just be there. That's all we need from you right now. It would be more than enough." Eddie presses his lips together tightly and bows his head. "Is that something you can do?" I ask, ignoring the head-shaking he's doing, because he's neither shaking affirmatively nor negatively. It's a headshake of frustration, of uncertainty. But if he really wants to stay, then I need to know it. I repeat, "Can you?" with more insistence. "It's a yes or no question, Dad, and you need to answer it."

After an interminable pause, my father looks up at me with unbridled sadness in his eyes, and I know his answer before he can even find his voice.

_To be continued..._


	9. Chapter 9

**Evan**

I wake up and feel like I've been flattened. Earlier, I mentally likened the state of my body to being run over by a train. Now I feel like someone picked up the train and is hitting me repeatedly with it. It's like Anna Karenina-style road rage over here, which really sucks since I totally hated that book.

It takes me a moment to remember where I am, and like a flood it all comes rushing back to me. I have cancer. Crap. I had a big old tumor growing in me and it exploded into my body, which is… just sooo gross. I seriously can't think about that part very long because it gives me the willies and makes me feel utterly disgusting. I mean, I'm not sure what's worse – the fact that I had a tumor or the fact that it popped and leaked stuff everywhere.

I keep imagining something that occurred a few summers ago. I bought a half of a watermelon and put it in the refrigerator, with the intention of eating it over the Fourth of July weekend. I wound up going out of town instead, and then kind of forgot it was in there. Every time I opened the fridge I thought, "Hmm, I need to eat that soon," but I never got around to actually doing it. One day, I heard this weird thump, but I didn't think much of it at the time. Later that evening, I opened the fridge to get something, and I saw that the watermelon had rotted and subsequently exploded all over the fridge, and gross rotten watermelon juice was dripping on all my food.

So that's the image I have of what happened with my tumor. Iiiick.

"Evan?" a soft voice wafts over to me. I look over and see Divya, once again by my side. "Hey," she says gently, allowing her fingers to caress my hair. I give her a grin.

"You're spoiling me."

"What?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"It's just really nice having you be the first thing I see when I wake up. You're a lot prettier than Hank." I sound enormously cheesy, and I'm sure she will just chalk up my statement as a direct result of the drugs (and she'd only be half right – I truly do enjoy waking up to her presence, but it's only thanks to the drugs that I can come right out and say so and not have her get offended). But she still blushes furiously. I realize she's the only person with me, and I bite my lip. "I guess… you know, don't you. About the… thing."

She looks at me with those big brown eyes so full of sympathy and sadness and unshed tears, and nods unhappily. "Evan, I'm… I'm so sorry…" she says haltingly, and her voice is thick with emotion. Damn it, I can't believe I've made Divya cry twice in the same day.

"Divya, please don't be upset, ok?" I say quietly. "I know it totally sucks, but everyone says I'll be fine. And I will. It's like… barely even cancer at all, you know?" I try to smile as bravely as I can. "The last thing in the world I want is for you to be sad over something so minor." She looks at me and there's something weird in her expression, but I can't pinpoint exactly what it is, perhaps because I'm still sort of out of it. Then before I can completely process what's happening, she gets up from her seat and sits down on the edge of my bed, and with a sort of very careful abandon (if that even makes sense) she leans over and tucks her slender arms around me, mindful of the IVs and wires, and hugs me as close as she can manage. Since I'm lying back, weak as a dishrag, this means she's kind of nestling into me. And even as I wind my own aching arms around her to return the embrace, I'm torn.

I love the feel of this beautiful bundle of awesomeness against me, how I can feel her trembling, and hear her heartbeat reverberate within my own body. This is the closest Divya has ever been to me, not counting that fake kiss she gave me that time. But this is way better because it's sincere and it's the best moment of my life. But a very small part of me wishes she hadn't done this, because I'm getting choked up now. This display of tenderness, like Hank's hug earlier, strips a little bit more of my façade away. It's not easy to pretend to be strong and brave when the real strong people are so visibly worried. Seeing how wrecked my always-together older brother was over me, and now seeing how hard the news of my tumor has hit this spirited, tough woman – a woman that I usually only seem to irk without even trying – just makes my heart hurt. It just reinforces the cold ugly truth: I'm sick.

And Divya wouldn't be touching me this way if I wasn't sick. Tumor notwithstanding, I don't have the right to hold her like this. She isn't mine to embrace, even if it is just a pity hug. But, crap, I don't want to let go. I need all the hugs I can get at this point.

God, why is this happening to me? I'm not cut out for this kind of pressure. I am trying my best to be calm and rational about my fate; I mean, that Dr. Bowers lady did say I would be ok. She wouldn't tell me that if she wasn't reasonably sure, right? But I'm not brave enough to go through this. I'm still scared to death – I don't want this in my body. I don't even want the memory of this in my body. I don't understand how this can be happening… I don't understand what I did to cause this.

To tell the truth, if Hank hadn't been on the verge of a panic attack at the news of my tumor thing, I probably would have had one myself. No one would guess it from looking at him, but Hank has an irrational fear of death. I know, kind of weird for a doctor, right? Well, maybe I should clarify: Hank has an irrational fear of _my_ death. Mom's loss really did a number on him. I mean, we were both crushed when she passed, but I feel like it was harder for Hank, because all the responsibility of holding the remains of our family together fell to him. With that came the responsibility to deal with me, the little kid in the mix. We were all we had, and I think that between Dad's abandonment and Mom's death, Hank became terrified that something would happen to me, and he would be left entirely alone. I sometimes wonder if he became a doctor as a different, less intrusive way to protect me, to preserve what was left of his family, just in case anything were to, you know, _happen_.

Hank's always been really overprotective of me, more so when we were younger. I would hear him checking on me at night, when he thought I was asleep, and before I started going to the high school with him, he would call the middle school to check on me in between his classes. This was all in the immediate aftermath of Mom's loss. He calmed down a lot once I grew up and began living on my own. He still looks out for me as any big brother would, but actually, the last time I saw him _really_ worried about me was in Cuba after I hit my head – I saw how freaked out he was, though he was trying to stay professional and calm for my sake. I did likewise, and I think once he realized I was actually ok (despite all the blood coming out of my head, I was still conscious and coherent and stuff) he allowed himself to relax a little... though he did forbid me from drinking and he woke me up every hour or so that night to shine a flashlight into my eyes.

But this is different. Cancer is both too extreme and too familiar to shrug off. Even though I'm supposed to be ok, there's a chance that I won't be. As much as they assure me they got it all out and with the radiation it isn't likely the cancer will come back, I know there is still a chance. We both know there's a chance. A small chance, sure, even a miniscule chance, a one in ten million chance, but the possibility _does _exist. I don't really feel like dying any time soon – I know that it's something we all have to do eventually, like paying taxes, but I'd just rather put it off for another 50 or 60 years or so. That's my personal opinion of the matter. But I'm more concerned with what would happen to my brother if I didn't survive this. It wouldn't be pretty. That's why I have to survive. I don't know if this will wind up killing me or not. But even if the cancer does come back at some point, even if I eventually have to deal with chemo or more surgeries or whatever, I have to survive as long as possible, until I could be sure that Hank would be ok without me.

I'm brought out of my thoughts as Divya sniffs and pulls away from me, brushing her hair out of her face and swiping at her eyes, though I don't think she was actually crying yet. "I'm sorry, I forgot myself. Did I hurt you?" she asks me.

"No, never." I smile, swallowing back my own emotion. "Anytime you want to forget yourself, feel free."

She blushes a little again, but straightens up and makes a valiant effort to be 'business-as-usual' Divya. I'm so grateful she does that - now that we've acknowledged the giant cancer elephant in the room, we can move forward. It shows she can still be normal around me; things don't have to be weird just because I had a tumor in my body up until yesterday. "Well… then… are you hungry at all? I've got an obscene amount of Jello here for you, if you'd care to make a dent in it."

"Oh, God, it's not lime, is it?" I grimace.

Divya raises an eyebrow. "No, actually it's orange. Lots and lots of orange – three bags full, in fact. But strangely enough there is one package of lime mixed in. Perhaps it was meant as a joke. I take it you have an aversion to that particular flavor?"

"It… just shouldn't be in existence. Like that 'peanut butter and jelly in the same jar' business. It's a terrible idea."

"So… orange, then?"

"Yeah, ok," I grudgingly acquiesce. I'm frankly not a big fan of Jello, period. Not even Jello in shot form. But if it's all I can have, I'd rather have a flavor I actually like. Orange is the least of the evils, as it were. I watch as Divya goes over to the other chair in the room and for the first time I notice that there are several of those environmentally conscious canvas shopping bags squeezed on it. They all look full to the brim, with Jello apparently. "I sure hope I'm not expected to eat all of that." I grumble as Divya opens a box of plastic spoons and comes toward me with an open Orange Container of Horror.

"Ok, open wide for the airplane!" Divya chirps playfully. Sitting beside me, she aims a spoonful of Jello at me. I roll my eyes.

"Really, Divya? The airplane spoon? What am I, five years oooomm-" I'm cut off as she manages to slide the spoon into my mouth mid-rant. As she removes it, smirking at my discomfiture, I swallow quickly to get the Jello away from my tastebuds, and moan, "Oh, God, it's all squishy. Blech!" It's so gross, I can't even take pleasure in the fact that a beautiful girl is feeding me, which, let's face, is fairly awesome any other time.

"I'm amazed that something as benign as Jello would offend the sensibilities of your super palate," Divya says cheekily.

"It's not the taste so much as the texture," I explain, before she feeds me another spoonful. Swallowing hastily again, I continue, "It's just so… jiggly! I can't see how anyone would find such a quality appealing in a food. I mean, seriously, don't create a snack that's the same consistency as hair gel. It's a bad idea. And don't even get me started on the flavoring. You know how when you're little-" I stop as I'm forced to take another bite, then continue where I left off. "- the dentist has those special flavors of tooth polish or whatever, like bubblegum or chocolate? To keep the kids entertained, right? But they don't taste anything like what they claim to be! Which is the point about the Jello flavors – same problem. Orange is the least screwed up flavor they have. The puddings are fine, since there's a consistency to them; they're not see-through and wiggling all over the place-"

"Evan!" Divya interrupts with amused frustration. "Shush! Spoon!" She deposits the next bite, which she has been holding for some time waiting for me to break my rant to take a breath. I guess she got tired of waiting.

"God, how am I still eating this stuff? Aren't there only like four bites per cup?" I whine.

"I'm giving you small bites. I don't want to overwhelm your stomach. If you hate Jello this much going down, I guarantee you'd hate even more if it came back up." She looks at me sternly. And she's probably right about the small bites. It appears that I have a lot of the stuff to go through, and it will just prolong the annoyingness if I yarf it all back up at the beginning.

"Divs, where exactly did this abundance of gelatin come from?"

"Oh, erm…" she pauses to glance over to the Jello harvest, and I swear I can see the wheels turning in her head as she carefully chooses her words. "Your father brought it… Hank's out talking with him right now. You know… explaining things."

Oh great, I'm sure THAT'S going swimmingly. "Really?" I say as nonchalantly as I can. "H-how did Dad look? I mean, do you know how he's taking it?"

"I, uh… I don't really know, Evan. I imagine he's upset, of course; we all are. But once Hank explains the reality of your situation, he'll feel a little more confident, I'm sure." Except she doesn't sound sure at all. Wow, Divya seriously cannot lie to save her life! Maybe it's the accent, or something, but it's really impressive. I'm fairly certain that what Hank is actually doing is trying to tie Eddie down so he doesn't run away. Or else Eddie's already running and Hank is giving chase with an elephant gun. I know it has to be something like that, otherwise Divya would have come right out and told me where Hank and Dad were without the hesitation. Damn… it was all going so well. They were talking, finally! And now I have to ruin everything by having cancer. _Crap._

Why did I think this would be any different? He did well enough with my emergency yesterday, but did I honestly think Dad wouldn't completely freak out when he got wind of my diagnosis? He couldn't handle it when it happened to Mom – did I really believe he'd do better with me? I feel enormously foolish, because I had honestly believed he had changed. But oddly, instead of being devastated, I feel… kind of pissed. "So has my father fled the country?" I ask Divya. I almost wince as I hear myself, because I meant to sound flippant, but I can't keep my voice steady and what comes out is bitterness.

"Evan, no, don't be silly!"

"I'm not being silly, Divya. I'm being realistic," I say flatly. I feel my stomach begin to churn. "You know he ran out on us shortly after we found out Mom had cancer, right? Who's to say he's not going to do the exact same thing now?"

"Hey!" Divya interjects. "Evan, you don't know-"

"I have a good idea! Look me in the eye and tell me you are 100% confident that my father isn't going to bail on me." She flinches, and I know that she knows something is up. "Oh, this is great. And I'm sure Hank is going to have a conniption over this. That is, if he hasn't killed Eddie and buried him underneath Boris's tennis court by now. Oh, God…" I grunt a bit, as my insides twist uncomfortably. Whatever my expression must be, it sends Divya into action. She jumps up from her spot on my bed – I don't know what she does with the Jello cup – and manages to slide a little plastic basin in front of my face just in time as I hurriedly lean to the side and vomit.

She was right – it is worse coming back up. So, so, so much worse. And dear God, it hurts.

"What's going on here?"

My brother's voice suddenly hits my ears, but I can't acknowledge his return because I'm still retching, with Divya attempting to aim the basin at the right angle and brace me as best she can to keep me from falling out of bed. I suddenly feel another pair of hands, stronger ones, holding onto me as my body rejects the tiny amount of food I've ingested (if you can call it food). I distantly hear Hank murmuring, "Ok, bro… that's right, get it all out… almost done…"

"Hank, I'm so sorry," I hear Divya say distraughtly as I gasp for air in between spasms. "I shouldn't have given him anything to eat yet. And he got upset about…" When she pauses, I can almost feel her giving him a pointed, significant look.

"'M not upset!" I manage to choke out. I seem to be done with the expulsion of the Jello (oh, the wonderful memory of this utterly disgusting moment that will add to my hatred of the stuff for years to come!), and with Hank and Divya's help, I straighten myself out and lie back onto my pillows, my eyes squeezed shut against the nausea. I'm sweating bullets and shaking, and the throwing up did nothing at all to help my overall pain.

"Ev?"

I open my eyes and Hank is leaning over me, the 'worried big brother' look plastered firmly on his face. He takes a cool cloth and sets it against my forehead, and asks, "Are you ok? Does it hurt?" The coolness sort of revives me a bit, and I'm able to answer.

"I'm ok… evil Jello…" but I smile so that he can know for sure that I'm fine. "Don't worry, Hank, it doesn't hurt. I mean, I hurt the way I did before, the way I have all day, but the throwing up didn't hurt me. It was just gross. Nothing's wrong inside," I add, wondering if he was scared that something 'cancery' was going on within my body.

"I found a nurse," another voice chimes in from the doorway. We all look over, and I see Eddie standing like he's ready to pounce, allowing one of the ICU nurses to enter the room past him to attend to me. Eddie is here? My dad is here? He knows about… the thing… and he's still here?

The nurse checks me over to make sure I didn't dislodge anything or pop my stitches while I was barfing, and checks my vitals with Hank's help. I submit to her prodding, but my eyes keep flicking to where Eddie stands in the corner, looking pale and worried. Finally, the nurse pronounces me to be fine, and with a cautionary admonition not to agitate me further, she escorts the basin containing my ex-Jello out of the room. Divya follows her to get me some more ice chips – it's clear my stomach is in no mood for anything more substantial, though I suppose they'll try again later with the Jello, or something else of the same consistency which I'm sure will be oh so tasty. Seeing my forlorn eyes, she assures me she'll be right back.

Once it's just us Lawsons again, I fix my eyes on Eddie. "You're here," I state.

He seems a little startled at my tone, but he nods and replies, "Yeah… yes. I'm here."

"I have cancer, Dad," I say quietly. Not overly emotional, but a mere statement of fact.

He winces a bit, clearly not used to the idea, but comes closer to me. "I… I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry this is happening to you, kiddo." He hesitantly puts his hand on my arm, but I don't know if his hesitation is from uncertainty at my sounding so aloof or if it's because he's creeped out by my disease.

"Dad, if you're going to leave, I won't stop you," I say, without really thinking. He looks startled, and so does Hank.

"Huh?" Dad stammers.

"If you don't want to stick around for this, then go ahead and leave. No hard feelings."

Hank looks like he wants to interject, but I stop him. "No, Henry. It's fine. I understand that this might be more than you're willing to handle," I say, addressing my father once more, who looks a little blind-sided. "But I'm completely serious, Dad. I don't want you to hover at my bedside because Hank is forcing you to be here. That's not enough for me, not anymore. I'm giving you a legitimate out, here. If you can't handle me being sick, go ahead and go right now. Just be upfront about it. I need to focus on getting well again, and I… frankly, I don't need any extra drama right now. I've given you everything I've got; as of this moment I'm bone-dry. I don't want you to make me any grand promises and then wind up bailing on me later. But if you go…" I swallow, because for a moment I feel like I've stepped into Hank's shoes. "I don't want you to come back. And I don't want you to call me again."

"Hey, now wait a minute…" Eddie looks stricken. But I don't let him finish.

"It would be up to Hank to decide if he wants to maintain contact with you. He didn't try to stop me from seeing you, so I won't try to stop him. That's between the two of you. I would bear you no ill will if you can't take this, but I do not want to talk to you again if you walk out of here. If you legitimately want to stay and support me as I go through this, and be there for Hank too, then you are welcome to do so. But I can't deal with any wishy-washiness. You're either in or you're out." As authoritative as I feel, I also think I might've sounded a little too Heidi Klum on that last statement. But I think my point has been made, and I wait expectantly to see if he will get up and walk out of my room, never to be seen again.

Imagine my shock when Eddie R sits down on my bed, takes both of my hands in his, and with _actual direct eye contact, _says, "I'm in."

Now it's my turn to say "Huh?"

"I'm all in, Evan. I know you don't expect much of me, given my history. I've got a lot to make up for. I know I wasn't there when your Mom was sick, but… can you let me try to be there for you now? I'm scared to death that I might wind up screwing things up even worse by sticking around… I can't promise that I'll automatically know the right thing to do, but I… I don't want to run anymore. I've already made that mistake more times than anyone should in a lifetime, and it's always cost me dearly. But I also didn't know you were so hesitant to have me around. If you honestly don't want me, Evan, you don't have to see me. But I won't be going anywhere anytime soon." Eddie looks right at me as he says this, and for the first time… I can't explain it, but for the first time I feel like someone who is being addressed by his father.

God help me, maybe I'm the world's biggest fool, but I believe him. Looking into his eyes, seeing him admit that he doesn't know what the hell he's doing but that he wants to try, I _believe_ he really wants to stay. I didn't want to hope for this. So much has happened, and I'm really sick, like _sick_ sick, and I just didn't want the disappointment of losing him to add to the fear I already feel. But he _wants_ to stay… I see pain in his eyes. It begins to dawn on me that he's aching over my suffering. Of course, he wouldn't wish this on me, I never thought that. I never believed he would be indifferent to my diagnosis. But I never expected to see my father _feeling_ so much… hurting so much… for me.

My eyes go blurry with tears. I tighten my hold on his hand, in case this is all a dream – if I'm about to wake up, I don't want this dream dad to vanish. "I want… I…" I stutter. Finally, I look at him, and manage to say, "You really won't leave me? You won't leave?" I sound like a child… a child that slept in front of the door for months after his father left his family, who cried himself to sleep every night while hoping that the door would open and he'd be there.

Dad looks at me carefully, and to my astonishment he leans in and puts his warm hands on either side of my face. He whispers, "I won't leave you again, son. _I'm in_." My tears roll out of my eyes (sheesh, I haven't cried this much in one day since I hit puberty) and I reach blindly for him. And he's there to pull me into an embrace. Though my body indignantly protests yet again, it will have to shut the hell up – after all, it did turn on me, so it doesn't get a say in what I do now.

I hear my father whispering over and over, "You're gonna be ok, Evan. You're so strong, you're gonna be just fine." I lift my eyes just far enough to see my teary-eyed, smiling brother off to the side, and I detach one arm from Eddie's neck and throw it out, beckoning him. He responds, and joins the hug, standing over both Dad and I, putting an arm around him and leaning his head upon mine, and we fold him in. We form a strange knot, each making sure to sustain contact with some part of the other two.

It's like the front door has opened, and my dad has finally come home.

_To Be Continued..._


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: **Wow, sorry for the delay - I came down with SOMETHING last weekend, some evil superbug (probably passed to me from a student - the little germ factories) and it knocked me flat. I'm significantly better now, but woefully behind in a number of things, including this story. :/

Another Evan POV for you, one that I hope will be enjoyable, since I was doped up on Benadryl for much of the writing. Just a heads-up: so far each chapter has roughly picked up right as the other left off, but there might be a time jump coming soon (otherwise Evan will NEVER get out of the hospital). It'll still be a lengthy, multi-chapter story, but we've gotta keep things moving here. There's a lot to tell yet.

* * *

**Evan**

Today finds me in my brand-new, regular private hospital room! There's a TV and everything, _and_ I don't have to wear the nose tubey thing anymore either (it was kind of itchy sometimes). After my scans this morning, I was pronounced ready to move out of the ICU, despite still being sore and achy and yeah, still kind of fat. The doctors and nurses are actually impressed that I seem to be doing so well after 'the incident.' I've always been a quick healer, I'm just _that_ awesome. Unfortunately, I still have to hang around the hospital for while, a week at minimum, if I'm lucky.

I'm glad to have been upgraded, especially given what a disaster my bloodwork turned into earlier. After my MRI, little Nurse Mc-Can't-Find-A-Vein had a little trouble, um, finding a vein. She poked me seven or eight times, and missed. Every. Single. Dang. Time. I think she would have kept going if I hadn't gotten really woozy. She just kept sticking and poking and _nothing_ was coming out and she even like wiggled the needle in my fat arm which stung quite a bit, and the next thing I know I've got my head between my legs. That's something I never expected to experience: feeling faint from _lack_ of blood loss. It was the proverbial 'trying to squeeze blood from a carrot'… or whatever the hell the phrase is. Hank came in about that time and was kind of pissed off with her when he figured out what was going on. He didn't yell at her, but he very abruptly put a stop to the procedure when he saw me, pale and shaking and two inches from passing out. Someone, either him or her, whipped out some smelling salts or some such thing and held them up to my nose, and suddenly it was like, POW! I don't even know how to explain it – this sort of sharp smell that didn't really smell like anything except awakeness, and suddenly I'm sitting up straight sniffling and blinking the spots away from my vision. I wonder if snorting cocaine is like that? The nurse clearly felt bad for the epic failure of her blood drawing skills, but she said I must still be a little dehydrated from the hemorrhaging episode. So we get to try again tomorrow. Joy. As it is, I've now got budding bruises on the crooks of both my elbows.

Dad brings Mrs. Newberg along today – he said she's been pestering him every five minutes about how I've been doing, and now that I'm in a normal room and can receive more visitors she insisted on coming to see me. She floats into my room, marches over and gives me a giant hug, and though I expect her exuberance to hurt me a little, she's surprisingly gentle with me. Dad is just behind her, carrying a rather elaborate and colorful flower arrangement which brightens up the sterile grey environment.

"Evan, sweetie!" she exclaims as she embraces me. She remembers my name! I mean, Mrs. Newberg is a pretty nice lady, but I can't recall a time when she's actually called me by my name. And apparently, Boris knows my name too, according to Hank. This just floors me. I've always been 'Hank's little brother' – story of my life, actually… being the other, lesser Lawson brother. But suddenly, out of nowhere, I have my own identity. Weirdly enough, I think my illness has set me apart somehow, singled me out. Now I'm "Evan… the guy with cancer." That's a little weird, I guess, to have that be your defining characteristic. It's not exactly the identity I wished for.

"I am soo relieved that you are on the mend," Mrs. Newberg says. She pats my hand and leans in, almost confidentially. "And you are going to get through this. I know it." Pausing for just a moment, she seems to come to some sort of inward decision, and continues, "You know, I understand exactly what you're feeling right now. I've been in your shoes myself."

My eyes bug a bit. "What?" I sputter in disbelief. "YOU? You don't mean you had…?"

She nods patiently. "About three years ago. Annual mammogram picked up a Stage 2 carcinoma in the left knocker. I had a family history, so I went for the double mastectomy. A bit extreme maybe – they probably could have gotten it all with a lumpectomy – but I wanted to be aggressive. There was no way I was going to let my hooters cut short my life, no matter how naturally spectacular they were."

"I… I had no idea!" I stammer, carefully trying to process the revelation of Mrs. Newberg's past illness amidst the TMI. I also have to fight the sudden urge to look at her cleavage – I knew they were fake, but I never once paused to wonder _why _they were fake. It never occurred to me that they were the result of anything other than vanity.

"Well, you wouldn't, would you? I'm healthy now! I had a great reconstructive surgeon, and when it was deemed appropriate, I decided to celebrate my life with the best rack money could buy." She grins at me with what I believe is genuine affection. "And to think, it was because of that purchase that all of you Lawson men came into my life." Technically, I guess she's right. The first thing Hank ever did for her was fix an issue with her deflated implant. And because we were here, Dad came here, and then… Whew, I feel a little overwhelmed. Of course, if Hank had this knowledge of her medical history he wouldn't have told me, with that whole doctor/patient confidentiality thing, and I respect that – at HankMed, we value discretion and our patients' privacy. Besides, he probably was too stressed to really think about it yesterday. But…

"Does Dad know about this?" I find myself asking. Is this why he feels like he can stay for me when he couldn't stay for Mom?

"He does now. He came over last night and told me about everything that happened yesterday, about your diagnosis, and what you said... your terms. He also told me how he acted when your dear mother got sick, and how he wanted to be there for you, but wasn't sure how to be. I could tell how scared he was, both for you and for himself, so I thought it was time to let him know about that part of my life. Needless to say, he was a little… surprised," she says with a wink, and we both glance over to the corner where he is quietly conferring with Hank about something. They seem to be giving us a semblance of privacy, though I'm sure they know full well what we're talking about. "But we had a very good talk. I think he gets it," she smiles meaningfully.

The idea that Mrs. Newberg fought the same disease I have blows my mind. You would never guess she had been sick, she's so vibrant and so… _healthy_. I mean, for a mature lady she looks really good, you know? And she was technically worse off than I am. The only other example I've had of this disease has been my mother, which of course didn't turn out well at all. But the story was different for Mrs. Newberg. She survived, she lived... she's still living. For her, it really was just a blip. Suddenly, I feel like my own survival is slightly more tangible. Yeah, I know what the doctors said about my prognosis. But somehow, actually seeing proof that someone _can_, in fact, beat cancer and flourish makes me more confident that this will be my outcome. And I am betting it helped Dad as well. But the fact that he only found out last night, after leaving here, means that he decided to stay on his own.

"Thank you," I murmur to her. "For telling me. I mean… you didn't have to, because it's really personal, but because you did, I feel… better. About this." I give a helpless gesture trying to communicate my feelings, wondering if I'm making any sense whatsoever.

"Don't you worry about a thing, honey," she says, putting her well-manicured hand on my cheek. "You've got me in your corner now. You need anything – even just the sympathetic ear of someone who actually understands – you just come to me." And I am so grateful.

She joins the rest of my family (hmmm, I like that concept) and we begin chatting about all sorts of things. Divya soon joins us, having brought lunch after making a patient visit. Sadly, while everyone else is nibbling on their sandwiches, I'm resigned to more Jello – though the doctors did say I might be able to have something more substantial tomorrow. Here's hoping; I fear that much more of this gelatinous evil will drive me into jiggly madness.

Wiping his mouth, Dad says, "So, when would the radiation process actually start?"

I repeat what Dr. Bowers told me. "They said I had to wait until I was healed from the surgery, so I guess I'll start in a month or so." I set aside my Jello cup, wrinkling my nose as I swallow the last of it. "I wish it could start sooner."

"Ev, the tumor isn't going to grow back while you wait," Hank says, trying to reassure me.

"That's not what I'm worried about," I scoff (though the thought had crossed my mind). "I just mean I'd like to start it sooner so that it would finish sooner. Then I could get back to normal sooner, you know?"

"You said it would make you tired," Dad states, his brow furrowed. "But is that it? That's the worst to expect from it? How tired are we talking here?" He looks to Hank for an answer.

"I hope it won't be like when I had mono. Remember, Henry?" I say with a pointed look at my brother. "Remember when I had the mono?"

Hank groans a little. "Yes, Evan, I remember," he replies tersely.

"I get the feeling there's a story here," Divya says, narrowing her eyes warily.

"Oh there is, there is!" I say, smirking almost villainously. "It's the story of how my big brother ruined prom night."

"God, not the prom story… always with the prom story…" Hank mutters, putting his head in his hands in mock despair. We've done this routine before.

"I came down with mono six weeks before the end of my senior year," I begin to explain. "And Captain Pre-Med over there thought he was a full-fledged doctor... and my personal prison warden."

"I never thought that," Hank looks up, exasperated, which brings me no small amount of enjoyment. "I was merely following the orders given by your actual doctor, because you _wouldn't_!"

"He grounded me from my prom," I say to my audience. "My own brother forbade me to go to my senior prom, the most important night of my high school career. My doctor never said to ground me from my prom." I can tell by their sympathetic faces that Dad and Mrs. Newberg feel for me, though I think Divya is siding with Hank on this.

"I'm sure it was for your own good, Evan," she says in a conciliatory tone.

"Oh, come on, Divs! He made me cancel on Stephanie Warner! That's what really stung the most. She was a cheerleader, too! It took me weeks to get up the courage to ask her to go with me, and he totally ruined my one last shot with her." Also ruined my last shot to lose my virginity before college, but we won't get into that.

"I think that giving Stephanie a highly contagious disease would have ruined your shot a little worse." Hank exclaims sarcastically. "Quit trying to make me the bad guy here! Who tried to go against doctor's orders and sneak out anyway?"

"I would have been successful if SOMEONE hadn't _disabled my car_!" I exclaim. I also begin to notice that the heads of Divya, Dad, and Mrs. Newberg are following this exchange as if it were a tennis match. Ha.

"That just proves how well I know you, little bro! For the millionth time: your lymph nodes were swollen, you had a chronic low-grade fever, and you could barely stand up for more than five minutes at a time. You really thought you were going to dance all night? I was doing you a favor! I let you go to your graduation a couple weeks later, didn't I?"

"Some fun that was! You let me walk ten feet to shake a hand and get a piece of paper and then made me come home and go to bed for the next month, while everyone else in my class – even the geeks – partied. To this day, I'm astonished you didn't roll me across the stage in a wheelchair."

"Do you like your spleen? _You're welcome!_"

"I liked Stephanie more," I say flatly. He always brings up my dadgum spleen when this story comes up, since apparently severe cases of mono can hurt it. Somehow he thinks this is his trump card. You know, I'm not entirely sure there is such a thing as a spleen – I'm like 78% certain it's just something anatomical-sounding made up for medical TV shows. Spleen… _spleeeeeeeeen_… seriously, it has to be fake, right? And if it is real, I mean, come on; what has it done for me lately?

"This is my least favorite bit that we do," Hank sighs, chuckling a little. "When are you going to stop throwing the mono thing in my face?"

"When I get my prom night back," I grin. Everyone starts chuckling, realizing that what they've just witnessed was not in fact an genuine argument over a long-held childhood grudge, but a little brother playfully sparring with his older brother and teasing him about his innate overprotectiveness. And yes, I can admit I am sort of doing it to avoid talking about what effects radiation will have on my body. Yes, I'm worried about freaking Dad out (I'm still not totally sure how far I can trust him, the news about Newberg notwithstanding), about seeing that little furrow between my brother's eyes get more deeply ingrained. About freaking myself out. I don't want to be dreading the treatments a whole month before they actually begin. So I attempt to deflect to a different subject, and hopefully lighten the mood. Hank gives me a knowing smile, so I'm sure he can sense my motivations for dragging this story out of the vault.

I continue in a dismissive tone, "I'm sure this won't be as bad as mono was. Oh, and just so we're clear, Henry: you may have been able to thwart my prom, but there is no way you're keeping me from going to Divya's wedding." I turn my eyes to her, smiling. I had decided long ago that I needed to come to terms with the fact that Divya would get married to Raj whether I liked it or not. It's her decision and she wouldn't have made that decision if that wasn't what would make her happy. She's had every opportunity to change her mind and she hasn't, so I have to believe that she really wants this. And therefore, I have to support her happiness. She's my friend. I'm not completely thrilled about her leaving us, but I'm resigned to the wisdom of that old song lyric, "_If it makes you happy / it can't be that bad_."

But something weird seems to cross over her face when I say this. Her smile sort of tightens, and I wonder briefly if maybe she doesn't want me there after all, even though she sent Hank and me an invitation. Her eyes become rather darty, and she hems and haws a little. "Right… erm… the wedding… well, funny thing about that…"

We don't get to find out what's funny though, because right then the door to my room opens without the preface of a knock, and in walks that woman we met several weeks ago, Dr. Emily Peck – the one Boris had brought in to attend to HankMed patients while Hank and I were in Cuba with him. I had thought it was nice of Boris to cover his bases like that, but when she declared her intention to remain in the Hamptons as a rival concierge doctor, my dander instantly went up. I do know that one of our clients decided he preferred her brand of medicine; God knows how many others she's attempted to poach from us. She seems pleasant enough to the untrained eye, but something about her just feels off. The way Divya tenses up as she appears tells me that she shares my opinion. Hank is far more courteous, standing to greet her, though as shocked as I am that she's here.

"Dr. Peck," he says, trying to mask his confusion. "What a pleasant surprise. What, um, what brings you here?"

"I heard about your brother and wanted to come by and see if there is anything I can do for you." Aw. Isn't that nice of her, wanting to do something for Hank because I'm sick.

She finally deigns to address me, politely enough (I get the feeling that she knows I'm on to her). "I was so sorry to hear of your illness," she says.

"How exactly _did _you hear about it?" I ask, curious because I'm fairly certain that Hank, Dad, and Divya haven't taken out an advertisement in the paper proclaiming that I have cancer, and I'm pretty sure that Dr. Bowers and Dr. Kirkland aren't supposed to talk about my medical condition with random people. Again, that whole confidentiality thing...

She smiles blandly and merely says, "Dr. Lawson had to cancel some appointments due to 'family issues.' News travels fast in the Hamptons."

Right. I forgot about that.

Looking back to Hank, who is obviously the more interesting of the two of us, I suppose since he's not scowling at her with thinly veiled hostility, Dr. Peck goes on. "I also wanted to discuss transfer of patient files. I figured it'd be easier to come to you."

"Transfer of files?" Hank says, a bit confused. I'm a little confused myself, and from the look on Divya's face, I assume she's in the same boat.

"Well, yes. I just wanted you to know I'm ready to take over your clientele whenever you're ready. I just wanted to make the transition as smooth as possible, both for you and for the patients."

"Hank, what is she talking about?" I ask in growing alarm. Hank looks a little blindsided.

"Um, I'm not entirely sure myself. What do you mean by taking over our clientele?"

Dr. Peck innocently darts her eyes between Hank and myself. "I just assumed… you would be devoting yourself to caring for your brother during this difficult time. Naturally, your family comes first, and of course, HankMed would be making provisions for their clients to continue receiving care in your absence."

Oh. My. God. I can't believe this woman! She literally just wandered into my frikking hospital room to use my condition to guilt my brother into turning over all our clients to her? Are you kidding me?

"Excuse me!" I butt in abruptly. "HankMed is still in operation; we have no intention of relinquishing any of our patients." I glare at her (as calmly and politely as possible), and beneath her placid face there are daggers in her eyes in response to my bursting of her bubble. I think she would kill me herself if she didn't think cancer was beating her to the punch. Hank looks uncomfortable and confused. Unfortunately, he does have some unhappy-looking guilty looking twinges encroaching onto his face.

Sure enough he mutters, "I didn't even think about what I'd do about our clients." No, no, no, no, Hank! Don't let her get to you. Don't look directly into the beast's eyes!

"Hank, you don't need to do anything about our clients," I growl. "No arrangements need to be made. We're going to continue exactly as we've been doing. This," I gesture generally to my swollen, bruised self. "…changes nothing. You said it yourself, I'm not going to be incapacitated by the radiation – I can still take care of business matters on my end and rest when I have to. It doesn't affect you or Divya. You'll both keep seeing patients. Nothing has changed; it's still business as usual."

"But…" Hank wavers, a whole host of new worries now brewing in his mind thanks to this harpy's intrusion. "If I'm out seeing patients, who's going to take care of you? Yeah, you won't be incapacitated, necessarily, but your immune system _will_ be compromised. What if you were to need something and I wasn't around? If something were to happen to you…"

"I think you're forgetting about me, Hank." All our heads swivel to my father, who now stands up, Mrs. Newberg beaming at him proudly from her seat. "If Evan needs to be looked after, I can do that." He looks at Hank with complete sincerity, his face a mixture of personal satisfaction at being able to contribute a possible solution to our dilemma, and perhaps a slight hint of hurt at Hank for not even considering his presence in our lives now.

Hank studies him, carefully considering the option. "I guess you're right. And if necessary, Divya can take on a little more responsibility… if she doesn't mind, of course." He looks to her for her opinion.

"Absolutely," she replies, also standing up, addressing Hank but looking at Dr. Peck with dignity. "I can handle things if, for any reason, Evan needs your presence more, and I can call you in the event of any serious trouble."

Dr. Peck gives a little sniff – did she just _scoff _at our Divya? - and says, "Well that's all well and good for the short-term. But if I'm not mistaken, your wedding is rapidly approaching, is it not, Divya? And following that, you'll be leaving the Hamptons… leaving HankMed short-handed in the patient care department." We all sort of freeze for moment. Crap, she's right. When Divya gets married, she'll have to move to London, and I know Hank hasn't had the chance to give much thought to hiring a new PA, especially what with the whole "Evan's-gland-exploded-and-he-has-cancer" thing of late. I doubt if he was even planning on replacing Divya, since she's simply irreplaceable. I'll still be in the middle of the radiation when she leaves us, and if something comes up, something medical that Dad can't handle, Hank will insist on dropping everything for my sake, whether I want him to or not. Crap, crap, crap… is our company, the one I helped build, imploding right in front of my eyes, because of my stupid cancer?

Then the weirdest thing happens.

Divya pulls herself up to her full height, and speaks with the magnificence of a Shakespearean actor (sans "thee" and "thou") to all of us. "Actually, that's what I was about to address before we were _interrupted._" She sends a surreptitiously pointed glance at Peck, and it doesn't go unnoticed, though it is unmentioned. "After speaking with Raj extensively on the matter, we have decided to postpone the wedding until after the first of the year. Which means," she tries to suppress a triumphant grin, "HankMed is still operational in its original form for the foreseeable future."

We all just sort of stare at her. Did she seriously just say this, or is this merely a bluff in front of Emily Peck? A mere six weeks before her wedding, and suddenly there's not going to be a wedding? Why has she done this now? Raj is ok with all of this? Was this really a mutual decision? But I can't find my voice to ask her any of this… I'm just too stunned.

Hank is as well, but a slow grin spreads on his face. Attempting to remain placid and trying to control the twitch in his lip, he turns back to Dr. Peck and says, "Well, then! There we go! Looks like all systems are go on our end. But thank you for stopping by, and wanting to help us out; that was very kind of you. And thank you for the well-wishes for my brother's health. If we wind up needing you, we'll let you know." He opens the door for her in a gentlemanly fashion, and with a glare directed at all of us, Dr. Peck tightens her smile and bids us farewell.

"Bye-bye!" Mrs. Newberg chirps from her seat, daintly waving her fingers, as Peck walks out the door.

Somehow I feel like when she gets to the elevator she's going to shake her fist in our general direction and intone like some Scooby-Doo villain, "Curses! Foiled again!" I'm probably being over-dramatic though – she's not a cartoon, she's just a regular person with a ruthless business sense. I'm sure she doesn't mean any real harm. Right?

The minute the door closes on Dr. Peck, all attention turns back to Divya, who seems to be going out of her way to ignore our prying stares. She calmly rummages through her purse, pulls out a stick of gum, painstakingly unwraps it and pops it into her mouth. She glances up and pretends to just notice that we're all looking at her as if she's sprouted another head. With wide innocent eyes, she gestures to us generally. "Gum? Anyone?" No one seems to hear her.

Rolling her eyes, she caves. "Alright, now look: the wedding is still going to happen, it's only been postponed a little while. Raj and I both – together, _mutually _– decided that there was far too much going on right now for the wedding and the overseas move to feasibly occur at its set date, so we changed it. It's for the best. Raj can fix some business issues on his end and do some much-needed job-related travel, and I can continue here in the Hamptons, doing… you know, the usual. It's that simple."

"But… Divya, were your parents ok with this?" Hank asks tentatively. I know he's as pleased as I am that we're going to have her for a little longer, but this is so out of left field, and we both know it's not simply a case of a couple changing the date of their wedding. This marriage was arranged: the parents are playing a way bigger role than usual (than is, in my opinion, normal or healthy, but that's beside the point). If they get pissed at Divya for this, then she'll be miserable. And I'll feel horrible. I know the gist of the idea is to help Hank with patients for as long as possible, but she wouldn't have needed to worry about it or change her plans so drastically if I wasn't sick. Ok, if I wasn't convinced before, this has done it: cancer is officially the hugest inconvenience EVER.

Divya shrugs dismissively. "They weren't _thrilled_ with the news, no. But Raj got his parents on our side, so against the four of us, they had to accept the decision. They'll get over it; it's not like we cancelled it completely. Mummy was having some doubts as to the auspiciousness of the date anyway. If anything, this is a good excuse for her to get things exactly as she wants them."

"Divya…" I murmur, shaking my head. I'm having trouble wrapping my brain around this. "I can't believe I've ruined your wedding…"

"Evan, stop right there!" she exclaims in a stern voice. "Nothing has been ruined, it's just been moved back a few months. It needed to be done, for a number of reasons. I didn't make this decision because of you. Now then, can we please move on and focus on more important things?"

Oh. Um, ow. That sort of stung. I know she doesn't mean for it to sound that way, I know she was merely trying to assuage my guilt about the change in plans, but I suddenly feel very… inconsequential. I wasn't a factor at all? Not even a little? Not that I wanted to be the one wreck her wedding plans – I wasn't keen on this arranged marriage for her to begin with, but if she was going to back out, it should be because _she_ wanted to, not because of "extenuating circumstances." Ok, I'll admit it: if I _was_ going to be the reason Divya wasn't going to marry Raj, I'd rather it be because she decided to be with me…. not because I'm sick and I'm inconveniencing everyone and Emily Peck is lurking in shadows ready to pick through the flaming ruins of HankMed. THIS isn't what I wanted… not like this. But I merely nod my head, silently agreeing not to make a big deal of this any further, for her sake, and eventually the conversation picks up again and moves on. It does take a little while for the awkwardness to dissolve, though.

* * *

Hank sees when I'm beginning to fade, and hints that everyone should clear out for a while so that I can get some rest. Dad and Mrs. Newberg kiss and hug me, and Dad promises to be back later that evening. Divya gives me a hug, and quietly whispers, "You know what I meant, don't you, Evan? When I said the decision about the wedding wasn't because of you? You know that I didn't mean to make you feel that I didn't care, or that I didn't want-"

"I know what you meant. It's ok, Divs," I murmur back. I hear the worry in her voice. I guess she saw me flinch a little earlier. I don't feel that much better about spoiling all her planning (to say nothing of her mother's – sheesh), but I give her a smile anyway, to let her know we're cool. Once again, whatever makes her happy – if a January wedding will be more to her taste, then ok; let's just be grateful for the extra time with her.

They leave, and Hank throws away some of the sandwich wrappers and napkins. "What are you doing now?" I ask.

"What do you mean?"

"What are you going to do if I rest?"

Hank sort of shrugs noncommittally. "Just, you know… hang out. Maybe read a little bit…"

"Or you could go home and get some rest yourself." I see his hackles go up, and I can tell he's resistant. "I mean it, bro. You're exhausted – I can tell. I'm glad you were with me in the ICU – it was a little scary in there, I'll admit it. But I'm out of there now, and everyone says I'm doing really well. You need to take care of yourself a little now. Go home, sleep in your bed for a little while. I'll be fine," I add, to reassure him.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah. Please get some rest. You need it."

Hank gives me a soft smile. "Fine. But I'm still staying with you tonight."

"Fair enough, big brother," I grin. Even though I don't think it's necessary for him to remain with me all night long, frankly I like the company. I'll gladly let him do that, as long as he doesn't martyr himself for my sake. Which brings me to my next request. "There's one other thing…"

"Sure, Ev. What do you need?" Hank looks at me expectantly, eager to have something to do for me. I sort of believe he would attempt to lasso the moon for me at this point, since he's not able to treat my illness this time.

"I need you to call a doctor and make an appointment for a full checkup. For yourself," I state matter-of-factly. He blinks at me a couple of times, processing, and seems stunned.

"What? Evan, I don't need to go to the doctor. I'm perfectly healthy!" He sounds almost indignant that I would imply otherwise.

But I shake my head. "No offense, Hank, but I believed I was healthy too, up until yesterday." His face falls a bit, and I suddenly regret saying that. Truth is, I haven't had a proper physical in years. Always too busy, or couldn't afford it, or a million other excuses. Hank has been my personal physician for a while now, but he's really only treated me when I've actually needed it, prescribing antibiotics and monitoring me when I have the flu or stitching me up when I crack my head open on scuba gear. But we just treated things as they came – it's been ages since I had a true wellness checkup. I don't want Hank to think that I am blaming him for not examining me thoroughly enough over the years. "And it's my own fault," I add hurriedly, before shame can take hold in my brother's soul. "I haven't taken enough of an interest in my own health – I assumed I was young and fit enough to never have anything really wrong with me. I should have been more proactive. Which is why I want to make sure you are ok." Doctors make the worst patients after all.

"Evan, I get what you're saying, but I had a physical back in January. It was required - hospital policy. I was fine then, and I'm still fine now," he explains patiently.

"Hank, please. I don't think it's an unreasonable request. Cancer runs in our family – it's pretty much official now if it wasn't before. I have to know that you don't have… that you're ok. If you don't get checked out, I'm going to feel awful and worry about you constantly, and of course that will hinder my own recovery." Yeah, okay, I realize what I'm doing. I'm not above using guilt to get what I want, as long as it's not misplaced or malevolent. It's one thing for Hank to feel guilty over some stupid notion that he neglected my health or that I developed cancer because of said negligence on his part. It's another thing entirely to make him feel guilty for making me feel guilty. _That_ I can use. "So really, if you care about me at all, you'll do this." I allow a ghost of a smile to creep into my face, so that Hank knows my true intent.

It works. He sighs in defeat, and places a hand gently upon my head. "Ok. I am positive I'm perfectly healthy, but if it means that much to you, bro, I promise, I'll get checked out. I'll get a doctor's note proving it."

"Thank you," I say quietly. "And you have to help me talk Dad into doing the same."

Hank chuckles, and sniffs, and leans down to give me a hug. "You're too much, you know that?" he murmurs fondly.

Yeah, I know I am, sometimes. But I'm so grateful that my brother doesn't mind the overabundance.

_To be continued..._


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: **Boo! Sorry for the recent delay. If anyone's still out there reading, here's a Hank chapter.

* * *

**Hank**

I pull the car to a stop in the gravel driveway at Shadow Pond, and promptly jump out of the driver's seat. I bolt over to the passenger side right as the door swings open. "I told you to wait for me!" I yelp, my hands on my hips.

My brother looks up at me, even as he is poised to exit the vehicle, and I see his irritation with me rising. "My ability to get out of a car is not related to my adrenal gland, Henry. I didn't lose it in the hospital."

"OK, ok, fine" I placate him quickly, but can't resist adding a cautionary "Just… watch your step," as I help him out of the car. He grimaces a little as he straightens up, and I quickly brace him with my arm around his waist, guiding his arm around my shoulders and forcing him to lean on me. He groans as I do this, but it's not from pain, though I'm sure he's experiencing a certain level of discomfort at the activity. More like from annoyance. At me.

Admittedly, I'm hovering. I'm well aware of that, and perhaps treating him like porcelain isn't entirely necessary, but I can't help myself. Evan has had a remarkable recovery time – discharged today after only a week in the hospital, and only two of those days spent in the ICU. He's still going to need to take it easy before the radiation treatments begin, however, so I can hardly be blamed for wanting to get him here and safely settled in.

But, true to form, despite being on the road to recovery from the surgery, he's also easily frustrated that it's taken so much out of him. Frankly, even though it was deemed safe enough to leave the hospital, he still has a fair amount of post-operative discomfort, not to mention he's as weak as a fluffy little kitten. We both know it, and it pisses him off. If he's this irked at his lack of strength now, I shudder to think where we'll be a few weeks into the radiation.

"Dude, you don't need to do this," he insists as I force him to allow me to bear his weight. "I can walk to the door."

"Nope."

"It's like ten feet."

"Nope."

"Nothing bad is going to happen to me in ten feet!"

"Nope."

"Is that all you're capable of saying?"

"Nope." I have to fight a smirk, inwardly wondering how long I can keep up the one-word reply before he hauls off and hits me.

"If you even think about carrying me over the threshold, I'm going to give you such a pinch."

"Well, we're already here, so no use complaining now," I grunt as I try to find the right key on the keychain. I am doing this one-handed, not allowing my grasp on my brother to slacken.

Hearing me grumble as I fumble, Evan snickers. "You know, you could just prop me up against the doorframe until you're ready."

"Hilarious. And I AM ready," I say triumphantly showing him the correct key. I put it to work in the door, and soon we're in.

"Home sweet guesthouse," I announce, guiding Evan through the doorway. "Watch your step here…" I gently remind him about the small step down from the foyer. I can hear him mutter a quietly incredulous _Oh my God_, but he doesn't say much else. I guess that's good for me.

"Ok, where to, bro? The couch, or upstairs?" I'm assuming he's going to want the couch, since the big screen is down here. My top priority is establishing his location somewhere so he can get comfortable and rest after the flurry this morning that checking out of the hospital involved; Dad, who agreed to make a grocery run for us since we have nothing edible in the house at present, will be here a little later, and then we can have lunch before Evan goes down for a nap. Wow, I'd better not let Evan know that I'm planning our day as if he were an infant.

"Well that depends," Evan looks at me warily. "If I said I wanted to take a shower first and wash off all that hospital grime, would that involve you standing in there with me? Because the bonds of brotherhood only stretch so far, Hank."

He has a point there. I mean, I don't really care – as a doctor, it's all the human body to me, but as a sibling… yeah, I don't particularly _want_ to do that, either. "I'll make a deal with you, ok? You can take a shower, and I will just wait out in the hall until you're finished. But if you start feeling funky, for God's sake, call me. The last thing either of us needs is for you to wind up back in the hospital because you fell in the bathroom."

Evan crinkles his nose, but nods in agreement. "Ok, fair enough." Together we head to the stairs, pausing a moment to study the narrow passageway. In terms of mere logistics, I'm not entirely sure how to get Evan up the stairs while still providing support. Short of carrying him, that is, and not only would he _kill _me, I truly don't think I could physically manage it up an incline that steep. I see him glancing my way, and once again rolling his eyes at me (I swear, he's going to do that once too often and they'll get stuck in the back of his head). "Here's a thought: how about you let me go first?"

We begin the climb, Evan setting the pace. I am right on his heels, my hand hovering near his back, spotting him in case he should fall backwards. I'm barely aware that I'm muttering things like, "Slow down" and "Take your time" and "Watch your step" until my brother stops in his slow ascent. Breathing heavily, with small beads of sweat on his forehead, he turns around and gives me a _look. _"Henry? _Helmet,_" he growls.

I raise my eyebrows. "Really?" He nods emphatically. "Ok, sorry, I'll try to stop."

I'll admit it: in years past, especially right after Mom passed away, I became very… _aware _of my responsibility to keep Evan safe. There were times I would actually call him at school and have them page him to the office, just so I could hear his voice and be sure he was alright. It was only after several months that I was made aware that not only was this causing Evan embarrassment in front of his classmates, it was also creating severe anxiety in him as well. Every time I called, he would start worrying something was wrong, and en route to the phone in the school office, he could get pretty worked up, fearing that this time, something would be wrong… that it wouldn't just be me checking up on him. We subsequently developed a signal, something discreet that alerted me as to when I was going overboard and told me to back off with the worry, for both our sakes. The signal was the word "helmet." Yes, as in protective (and somewhat motion-restrictive) headgear. We hadn't used the code in years, the last time being around Evan's mono ordeal his senior year, and in truth I had almost forgotten about it. But it was somehow resurrected in the past week, as Evan recovered in the hospital. I guess I finally hovered a little too close one day, the day the catheter came out and Evan was allowed to stand and go to the bathroom since he adamantly refused to use a bedpan. I was supporting him on his way to the toilet and despite some meaningful looks I lingered once we got there. I think when I started instructing him on how to relieve himself, he got fed up and in frustration he had snapped, "God, helmet, helmet! For Pete's sake, _helmet!_" I think he was as surprised as I was to hear that word in our own private context once again, but he made his point.

He's only used the signal one other time aside from now, which I think shows remarkable restraint on his part, given how often he used it as a kid. The timbre of his voice indicates that I should probably back off now – I suppose my quiet albeit persistent cautioning is wearing out his patience. But truly… can you blame me? I very nearly lost my brother a week ago. And then I discovered why I almost lost him. Is it any wonder that with this trauma is still so fresh and Evan still feeling its bite, I would cling to him a bit?

Taking it slowly, we finally manage to reach the top of the stairs. Evan has to pause to catch his breath once we're there; his body has lost some of the energy he's always taken for granted. It will return, of course, but it's rather adding insult to injury knowing that almost the moment he has his full strength back, the radiation will begin to strip it away once again. We don't talk about that though. Instead, we continue on to the bathroom.

Evan begins to carefully peel off his T-shirt, and I go out to the linen closet to get him some fresh towels. When I return, I see that Evan has removed his bandages covering his stitches. "Hey, Ev, you might want to keep that covered while you shower, and then clean around the stitches carefully afterwards. It's still pretty raw, the soap might sting…" I stop when I realize he's not listening to me. He's looking at himself in the mirror, frowning, as if he's seeing a stranger in place of his own reflection. "_Hell_…" I hear him whisper.

"You ok, bro?" I ask, trying not to let the edge of concern color the question too much.

"Man… I didn't realize…" Evan shakes his head in dismay. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"What?"

"That I look so… _sick_."

Uh-oh. Better put a stop to this quick. "Evan, you've been through a lot. You only just got out of the hospital, like, a minute ago-"

"Hank, look at me!" He turns to face me. I see his fair skin still about three shades paler than normal… a sickly hue, interrupted only by the colors of the incision, red and black, with some mottled greenish-gray bruising still visible around it. Without the post-operative puffiness he sported for several days, I can see how much weight he's lost in a week with the help of a predominantly Jello diet. The weight loss is most visible in his face, with his eyes looking enormous and Bambi-like, dark circles of fatigue set beneath. He seems so desperate, as if silently pleading for me to dispel his fear that he looks sick, like someone with cancer. Like someone who nearly died and who could possibly still be quietly, secretly dying. That's the real issue, I think – why this new visual reality of his reflection is causing the beginnings of a panic. Before this event happened, he was in perfect health outwardly, never imagining what chaos was occurring within. Now that he _knows_ what was inside him all this time, it's all he can see. He views himself as a good apple with a worm inside of it, and wormy apples aren't salvageable. Even if you pull the worm out, it's still not an apple that you want to eat.

How do I reassure him that he _is_ salvageable? How do I tell him that as far as I'm concerned, the fact that he is standing here in front of me right now – a little worse for the wear, but _alive_ – makes him the most beautiful sight I've ever seen? I'm not sure I can say such a thing to my little brother without sounding maudlin. Instead, holding his gaze, I say gently, "I'm looking at you. And I see nothing but strength. All I see is my brother, the survivor. You're still you, Evan. This hasn't broken you and it's not going to. Remember, you've already beaten it. You've already won. Ok?" I put my hand on his shoulder.

Evan takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment and then nods his head. "Yeah… yeah. Ok." Taking the towel from me, he murmurs, "Thanks."

"Yeah." Evan has been coping so well since getting his diagnosis. Aside from the tears that first day, there has been no breaking down, no wailing or gnashing of teeth, no petulant brooding, no denial, no anger or blaming anything for what has happened to him. Truly, we haven't really discussed it much since then, only occasionally referring to the cancer, and in the vaguest of terms. Words like "this" or "it" or "the thing" – benign little nonspecifics, applicable to anything before now, that have suddenly become fraught with heavy meaning. This is the first time since the day we heard the word "cancer" that his resolve has crumbled just a little… that he has been less than confident about his determination to beat it.

At least… it's the first time that _I've_ actually seen.

I allow Evan to take his shower in private, grabbing some fresh clothes for him from his room and discretely setting them in the bathroom once he is safely behind the curtain. I wait patiently in the hallway until he's finished, about twenty minutes. When he finally gives me the all-clear, I open the door and the steam from the bathroom is visibly flowing into the hall like some supernatural fog out of a scary movie. "Feel a little better?" I ask.

"Much," Evan replies with a lopsided smile. His face is now slightly flushed pink from the hot water, but it makes him look healthier to have some color in his cheeks.

After letting me redress his incision, Evan decides he'd like to be on the couch for now, so we head back downstairs, again with him setting the pace and me at his elbow (though I try to keep the verbal cautioning to a minimum). Within minutes, I've gotten pillows and blankets and made him a nice little nest in front of the big screen. My brother is looking like a reclining maharajah when our dad comes through the door with several bags of groceries.

"There's my boys! I come bearing foodstuffs," Eddie grins as he lumbers in. "And don't worry, Evan – not a Jello cup in sight!"

I stand up to help him with the grocery bags, and out of the corner of my eye I think I see Evan making to stand up too. He can't seriously think I'm going to let him carry anything, can he? "Ahhh-ahh!" I grunt like a game show buzzer, effectively stopping him in his tracks. "Don't even think about it," I say as he seems about to form a protestation.

"Just enjoy being waited on, son," Dad helpfully supplies as he allows me to take some of the bags from his arms. "While it lasts, that is," he adds with a wink.

Evan mutters something under his breath which sounds suspiciously like "_Great, a helmet AND water wings." _But I could be wrong. I don't pursue it because I don't want to pick a fight. Dad and I carry the groceries to the kitchen, leaving Evan pouting on the couch in front of a talk show.

"So glad he's finally out of that place," Dad murmurs as he sets his bags down.

"I know," I nod in understanding.

"Now that he's home… what do we do?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know… what do we do? He's got several weeks before the treatments start. Does he need to do anything in particular, like sleep more, or eat a certain way, or avoid certain activities? I mean, right now he'll probably need a lot of rest, but as he recovers he's going to want to go out and do things. Should we let him?"

"Dad, he's not a prisoner – of course we let him! I mean, we should make sure he doesn't overtire – he's still healing. But he can go out to dinner and go to the beach, and meet HankMed clients…" I trail off as I think about that a little harder. "Although, once the treatments start, I don't think coming on housecalls with me would be a good idea. His immune system will be screwed up, and I don't want to expose him to whatever any patients might be suffering from." I frown. Evan won't like that very much. If there's one thing he loves, it's marketing HankMed, often to my chagrin.

"Well, if he's going to be as worn out as you say, he probably won't feel like it anyways," Dad reminds me.

"That's true." I sigh. "To be honest, Dad, I think we're just going to have to deal with each day as it comes. At this point, we don't know how severely the radiation will affect him. There may be times when he feels okay, and times when he won't be able to get out of bed. But listen, I think it's important that we don't treat him like a _sick _person, you know?" My mind flashes to the scene in the bathroom earlier.

"That's surprising, coming from you…" Dad arches his eyebrow at me, smirking as he sets the milk in the fridge. "Isn't your new nickname 'Helmet Hank,' or have I not heard that correctly?"

"It's just 'Helmet,' and it's _not _a nickname, it's... it's a… whatever, it's not important. And I'm _not_ treating him like he's sick – I'm trying to help him as he recovers. He's still a bit weak and sore from the surgery and I… I'm just… being a brother!" I am getting a little defensive here. Sure, I've been hovering over Evan, but not any more than I usually do when he's down with something. Dad knows exactly what I mean – that we shouldn't act all funny around Evan because of the cancer. And I am NOT acting funny – I'm acting exactly how Evan would expect me to act. If I wasn't assuming my role as the overprotective big brother, I wouldn't be acting like myself, and THAT would make Evan uncomfortable.

All this I mutter as I defensively start to make a sandwich for Evan, who is in the living room completely unaware that this conversation is even happening. Thank God for that!

Dad attempts to mollify me. "Hey, son. You know I'm not disagreeing with you, right? If you think we should treat Evan as normally as possible, then that's what we'll do. Just… keep me accountable, ok? Let me know if I need to do something different." He gives an embarrassed shrug. "I'm… not as good with these sorts of things as you are. You know more about it, so you need to help me if I do the wrong thing." He awkwardly reaches for Evan's sandwich, offering to take it to him. "Here, let me-"

"No! I've got it." I answer a little more abruptly than I intended, while simultaneously pulling the plate closer to myself, as if it were "The Precious" and I was an animated Andy Serkis. Eddie looks disappointed and a little taken aback, so I add in a softer tone, "Can you get Evan some water?" His eyes brighten slightly and he nods at me.

I don't know why I jumped so quickly when I saw Dad trying to take control of something as innocuous as a sandwich. Like it really matters who brings Evan his lunch! And yet…

Dad and I have been getting along so well since the day Evan got his diagnosis and Dad vowed to stay by his side. It's been such a relief to be able to believe that he really will step up, stick around, and not add trauma upon trauma. And I personally felt good that Eddie would be around to shoulder some of the burden this time.

_And yet…_

God help me, I actually felt momentarily irked by Dad's offer to take the sandwich just now. If it had happened ten years ago… hell, even ten _days _ago, I would have physically slapped the man's hand away. As good as our rapport has been, I felt a flash of indignation at him… like, "How dare you try to interfere! He's MY brother. If anyone is going to bring him a sandwich, it's _me_!" Which is… just crazy! As if he was somehow infringing on my territory… as if the years of being just the two of us means that Evan belongs solely to me, and Eddie doesn't have the right to take any portion of my little brother away from me.

All of this is insanely irrational, which I realized as soon as I had rejected Eddie. He isn't out to 'take Evan away from me,' neither physically nor emotionally. Shaking my head, I'm wondering if all the stress of the past week and my little brother's brush with death has made me not just overly cautious, but also a little possessive of him. Or maybe it was the last twenty years or so without Eddie's presence that has done that. Sheesh, what's wrong with me? I need to shape up, because Dad is going to be around. He will need to have time with and access to Evan, too. It's just… a new, unfamiliar situation.

I bring the sandwich into the den, only to find Evan sound asleep on the couch. "Ev?" I whisper, just to ascertain whether he's truly asleep or just dozing. There's no response. I smile and pull the blankets a little higher, covering him comfortably. I head back to the kitchen to let Dad know Evan is sleeping. We'll have our lunch, and Evan can have his whenever he awakens.

* * *

_Later that night..._

Evan... I wake up in a cold sweat. It's dark and I'm not completely sure where I am. The glowing numbers next to me say 2:17. In the morning? Where's Evan? I'm still half lingering in my dream – was it a dream? Where something is wrong with Evan and I have to fix him before it's too late, but I can't find him...

It takes me a few minutes to remember that I'm in my room. And Evan is… down the hall in his room. For the past week I've spent every night with him in his hospital room, even when he was out of danger. I guess I panicked when I woke up and realized he wasn't in here with me. He's fine… he's down the hall, sleeping… it was just a dream. Right? Maybe I should go check on him… just to be sure…

Before I can make a move to get up, my door opens. I see a shadowy outline and hear a soft, "Hank, are you ok?" Relief inexplicably courses through me when I hear Evan's voice. I actually feel myself shaking, I'm so relieved.

"Evan? What're you doing up?" I ask, trying to hurriedly reassert myself back into my Big Brother disguise, but my voice seems oddly quivery.

"I heard you calling me," Evan answers, walking forward now. I guess he was waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness in my room. "You want to talk about it?" he asks as he eases himself onto the edge of my bed. I can make out the glimmer of his eyes, and I feel them trained on me.

"Talk about what?" I shrug, feigning ignorance.

"The bad dreams."

"I don't know what you mean," I huff.

"So you _weren't_ having nightmares about me?"

"No! Of course not. Whatever made you think that?"

"I've told you for years that you talk in your sleep, bro. That is, when you're not snoring." Evan chuckles a bit. I can't respond to that because my jaw drops open. "We've spent the past week sleeping in the same room, Hank. The first couple of nights, I was too doped up to know anything. But as the meds tapered off, it was easier to wake up when I heard you. Especially since you were saying my name – I thought you were talking to me. So come on, spill."

I hem and haw a moment before coming clean. "It's not really a nightmare, just an anxiety dream… I don't know where you are, and I have to find you quickly, because you're… hurt or… or sick… and I have to save you. But I can't find you, and I'm calling you, but you don't answer. And I just start to panic that I won't find you in time… or at all…"

"Turn on the light, Hank."

"What?"

"Just turn it on." I lean over and switch on the lamp on the bedside table. The sudden light makes both of us wince, squeezing our eyes shut. "What do you see?" I hear Evan ask me.

"I can't see anything right this second!" I mutter, allowing a few more seconds to pass as I hesitantly blink my eyes. Finally I can actually look around in the comfortingly-lit room. And there's my little brother, sitting on my bed, also squinting a little, but searching my face. He looks so concerned about me and I feel completely _ridiculous._ How dare I make him worry about me when his life is being turned upside down? How dare I make him come running to my room to calm my nightmares when he needs to be resting? I'm the rational older brother – I'm supposed to be taking care of _him. _Man, I have really been slouching in my role lately.

"Look at me. What do you see, Hank?" Evan repeats. "Do you see me here, in your room?"

"Of course."

"You can see that I'm alright? That I'm… not in need of immediate medical attention?" He smiles softly at me, and I wonder if he was about to say he was "perfectly healthy" before he paused and remembered that… he's not. That's what he would've said any other time.

I swallow and reply, "Yes, I see you." It occurs to me, in a wisp of a fleeting thought, that this is the second time today that Evan has demanded that I look at him, and how different those situations were. Earlier, Evan begged me to look at him, with dismay filling his eyes, in order to assuage his fears. Now, he's quietly asking me to do the same thing, but in order to calm mine.

I attempt to brush off his concern. "I know you're ok, and I know you're just down the hall. I just… didn't see you when I woke up and… I forgot we weren't in the hospital anymore and I got confused. It's been a stressful time, you know? I didn't mean to wake you up, this time or any of the times before. I think I have some earplugs somewhere, if you'd like to use them…"

"Well, actually, I was going to offer to stay in here with you – just in case you 'get confused' again."

I stare at my bedspread, embarrassed. "Ev, geez, we're adults." It was one thing to let Evan climb into bed with me after a nightmare when we were children. Doing it now would just be… lame. Especially since he wasn't the one who had the nightmare this time.

"Duh." Evan rolls his eyes. "We've also just had a pretty rotten week, filled with more angst than anyone needs in a lifetime, and we're both tense and exhausted. And hey, maybe _I _need the comforting presence of my brother in the same room with me, just for one night. You wouldn't deny me that on my first night home, would you?"

I stare at him silently, thinking hard about my response. Then I sigh, and scoot over to make room for him. He grins impishly at me and crawls forward to settle himself on a pillow. Wondering how this became a favor for him, I switch off the light as we both settle in. "Now listen," I say, in a serious tone. "This isn't one of our twin beds – this is a king-sized mattress. Which means there will be no excuses if you start kicking me."

"Well, as long as you don't snore, we shouldn't have a problem," Evan responds, without missing a beat.

"God, ok! I'll give you the talking in my sleep – fine. But for the millionth time, I do NOT snore."

"Look I'm not _blaming _you – you kind of can't help it with that schnoz of yours."

"I don't snore, Evan."

"Dude, you totally do."

"Do not."

"Do too."

"Do _not!_"

"I recorded you doing it!"

"That was not proof – that was a sound on a static-y cassette tape that could have been anyone or anything! And it sounded like a camel with dry heaves. No human being could have made that sound."

"Well, since it _was_ you, I guess you're not human then."

"God, I swear…."

And oddly enough, with my brother close by and arguing with me like it's the most normal thing in the world, I know I'll be able to sleep now. I'm finally comforted.

_To be continued..._


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: **Well, I'm back from the beyond. To anyone who is still reading, I'm so sorry if it seemed like had abandoned this story. I was all set to upload a chapter, but my family dealt with an unexpected loss the week before Christmas, and I'm still coming back from that. It hit me a lot harder than I realized. By the time I began getting back to my writing, I didn't like the chapter anymore, so I retooled it in my spare time. I hope there's still readers out there who are willing to stick with me... especially now that our show is back and we're getting more new stuff with the boys.

Again, I'm sorry for being MIA. I hope you'll bear with me.

* * *

**Evan**

I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. I've been doing this for hours, and my room has gotten progressively lighter as the sun begins its ascent. Distantly I can hear a beeping sound from Hank's room, then I hear him stirring, heading downstairs, and leaving the guesthouse to go for an early run. He's not changing his routine, even today, and I figure if he has the energy to run then he must have had better luck in the sleep department than I did.

Taking advantage of the alone time, I go ahead and get up, shower, and dress. That, in its entirety, takes up about fifteen minutes of this endless morning. Coming down the stairs, I contemplate what I should eat for breakfast, but my stomach feels so jittery I don't think I could hold anything down. Instead, I get a cold bottle of water from the fridge and sit at the counter, blankly staring at yesterday's paper.

It's been almost a month since I got out of the hospital. I'm doing fine, though it's taken me a little longer to bounce back that I anticipated. We've all sort of slid back into this pattern of normalcy. Hank and Divya go and see their patients, and sometimes I come along, getting retainers signed, getting billing information for invoices. Other times I work from home, crunching my numbers and filling in spreadsheets. Divya and I snark at each other (though for some reason that I don't want to question, we now greet and leave each other with a gentle hug); I have had increasingly frequent golf outings with Dad as my strength has grown, and he has been to the guesthouse more often for meals with both his sons, on his own and accompanied by Mrs. Newberg; and Hank and I are… us. When I first got out of the hospital he hovered over me so much, I got so tired of using the "Helmet" signal I considered purchasing a hard hat and just pointedly gesturing to it when needed. I didn't, though. Eventually, as I got stronger, he backed off a bit. It's all very, very, very normal now.

And it's also not… because I don't really feel normal. And I wonder if I ever will again.

I feel very disconnected from myself. It's almost like I'm not on speaking terms with my body after what it did to me. I mean, I'm not intentionally ignoring it… I don't know, I just sort of forget that I'm not as I used to be. And as I've been feeling less pain and more strength, I can go for almost a whole day without remembering that I had surgery, or _why_ I had to have it. But then I catch a glimpse of my scar, which my own brother removed the stitches from not so long ago, and I remember. I remember what was pulled out of me, that disgusting, malignant, bleeding tumor. I remember that I had cancer in my body, and I might still have some screwy rogue cells lying around in there, biding their time, waiting to organize themselves to overtake my whole body. That was actually really bugging me – those heavy painkillers the hospital gave me made me so tired I would only take them at night, but as I would wait for them to kick in, my mind would get all funky and I felt like I could actually _hear_ my cells talking to each other, strategizing and plotting to go all cancery on me again. It freaked me out so much I threw out the pills (pissing Hank off tremendously) and just took mega-strength Tylenol for the rest of my recuperation.

But I have no friggin' clue what to do with myself anymore, because I start the radiation treatments today. I can't pretend or conveniently forget anymore, because the largest reality of the disease – the treatment – is looming in front of me for the next two months.

My brother bursts through the door, sweaty and stinking to high heaven, sucking in a couple of deep breaths. I don't know how long I've been sitting here not reading the paper (who even reads a physical newspaper anymore anyways?), but it was long enough for Hank to finish his run. He notices me, and gives me a smile, though I see concern in his eyes. "Hey, morning, bro!" And three… two… one… "How'd you sleep?" Yep. So predictable.

"Didn't," I mutter.

Hank's face falls. "Not even a little bit? But what about-?"

"I guess I managed to out-anxiety the Xanax." I give a wry, half smile. "I'm just _that_ good." As The Day has been getting closer and closer, I've been sleeping less and less. So I've worked instead. With the insomnia I've had for the past week or so, I've managed to not only catch up from when I was sick (when Hank wouldn't let me touch anything work-related), I've also managed to kind of work ahead a few months. Hank sort of looked the other way in the beginning, but he finally confronted me about my inability to sleep a couple of days ago. Then last night, around 11, when he found me doing prep work on tax returns (six months early), he gave me a pill, a Xanax, saying it would relax me and help me sleep. I protested, not thrilled with the idea of being _medicated _in that sort of way, and also worried as to what this would mean for the morning. But Hank insisted that it was perfectly safe, it wouldn't affect the radiation at all, and Dr. Bowers had OK'd it. So I took it because, well, I'm tired, and the night takes a really long time when you don't sleep.

Unfortunately, my anxiety seems to be drug-resistant, because Xanax didn't do a damn thing for me. Maybe I didn't have a big enough dosage, but I didn't bother to awaken Hank to get any more. I get the idea Hank wishes I had. "I wish you'd have let me know," he mutters, proving my point. "I'm sorry, Ev. I really thought it would help."

"It's no big deal," I say dismissively. "It is what it is. I'll grab a nap at some point." I almost add that in a few weeks it won't matter because I'll probably be so worn out that all I'll be able to do is sleep. But somehow I don't think that fact would help either of us.

Hank shakes his head in consternation, and I wonder if he's disappointed in me for being such a coward, for being too wound up to sleep, or disappointed in himself for not intervening sooner or giving me enough medicine to get me to sleep. Either way, he doesn't say anything further on the subject, but opening a bottle of water, he asks, "You had breakfast?"

I don't know why I don't just say yes. If pressed, I could even admit that my stomach is freaking out and say that I just had some toast or something to tide me over. It would just be a tiny fib… a fiblet, really, and it would make things so much easier. But instead I find myself confessing, "No… I'm not hungry."

"Evan, you have to eat something; you didn't have much for dinner last night either."

"I know, I know... But, honestly, I'm queasy as it is, I'd probably just wind up yarfing before we even leave the house." I sigh. "Can we just, like… get something afterwards? Once it's done, I'm sure I'll feel better."

Hank looks sympathetically at me, and after a moment nods his assent. He looks like he wants to say something else, but instead just mentions that he's going to take a quick shower and get dressed, and then we can go. He leaves me still sitting in the kitchen with the paper that I am not reading, but I feel him lightly place his hand on my head before he goes – not in a bold, hair-tousling, borderline-noogie sort of way, but a more gentle form of contact; his way of acknowledging my nervousness and reassuring me that everything will be fine.

* * *

Half an hour later, we're in Hank's car, driving silently to Hampton's Heritage. The closer we get, the sweatier my palms become. I feel like there are kangaroos in my stomach and they're getting hyper. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Hank occasionally looking over at me, probably wondering if I'm going to hurl in his car. I'm wondering the same thing, even though there's not a whole lot in my stomach to bring up at this point.

Within about five blocks of our destination, I can't take it anymore. "Hank, could you pull over please?" I choke out hoarsely.

"Are you going to be sick?" he asks me worriedly as he carefully but quickly steers the vehicle out of traffic and to the curb. When I don't immediately jump out of the car and into the bushes, he shuts off the engine and rolls down the window, allowing a breath of crisp morning air to fill the car. "Take a drink of water," he suggests, handing me my half-empty water bottle from the cup holder. We both notice that my hand visibly shakes as I take it, causing the bottle to wobble. I need two hands to hold it steady as I bring it to my trembling lips.

"You're really pale," Hank observes, taking his seat belt off. I can believe it – I feel pretty colorless at this point. As I finish gulping the water and lower the bottle to my lap, he instinctively reaches over and takes hold of my wrist, feeling my pulse. "You've got to calm down, Ev. Ok?" he asks.

"Nope. Not ok," I find myself saying bluntly. "You know, I was thinking... The surgery got the whole tumor out, which means I'm actually cancer-free right now, right?" My words sort of tumble over each other; it's like these realizations have just dawned on me, though I know I've had these thoughts before – just never spoken them out loud to anyone.

I see my brother's brow begin to furrow when he takes in my tight expression. He gives a hesitant nod and says, "Yeah… essentially, that's true."

I go on babbling. "So technically, I don't really _need _the radiation at all."

Hank blinks as my statement rolls over him. He gets this strained look, a mixture of shock and something else I can't place, and he blurts out, "What… what are you saying? Are you saying… you don't want it?"

"Of course I don't want it! I've never _wanted _it!" I scoff. For some reason, I almost want to shake him for assuming a silly thing like that. Who on earth would WANT radiation? Who would knowingly volunteer for exposure to something like that if it wasn't necessary? It's kind of a relief to admit it. However, from the look on his face, you would think my big brother had just discovered me holding a loaded gun to my head.

"So… you're not going to do it? But… but, you can't…" Hank sputters, trying to process what I'm getting at, somehow stunned that I would be feeling any misgivings about this. "You heard what Dr. Bowers said – she recommended it for a reason. We've been over it a million times, you know what could happen if we don't do it…"

"But there are no guarantees either way!" I interrupt. "Even if I have the radiation, the cancer could still come back. And if I don't have it, I could still remain cancer-free for the rest of my life. I've paid attention, Henry – believe me, I've contemplated every possible scenario in this horrible _Choose Your Own Adventure_ story."

"Where is this even coming from?" Hank sounds like he's desperately trying to hold back some emotion, trying to understand how my dread has bubbled up into this seemingly sudden hysterical urge to run as fast as possible in the opposite direction. It's a legitimate question – I've had a month to talk about the depth of my fright before now and I haven't, and I know it's horribly unfair to pop out with this today, en route to the very first appointment, but I can't hold it in anymore. I _know_ how the whole thing is supposed to work, and it's only supposed to take ten minutes every day for the next eight weeks. And I know they told me I wouldn't even feel it… although it's hard to take my radiologist's word on this, because he's going to be sitting in a little radiation-proof room the whole time the thing's going, so he won't be exposed to it. Meanwhile, I've got the doo-dad trained directly onto my internal organs. Yeah, that's _very_ reassuring… I don't see how you can't _not_ feel it, at least a little bit.

"Please, just… Hank…" I whisper. I swallow, closing my eyes, trying to gather myself. "Just tell me I don't have to go in there. Just say that I don't have to do it."

"Oh, Evan," Hank sighs. He looks at me, his eyes growing bright as he hesitantly speaks. "I'm not your doctor now – I can clarify or explain what the specialists say so that you understand all the facts to make informed decisions… but the decisions have to be yours. I can't _make_ you do anything; I can't force you to have treatment that you don't want. I know you know all the information, and all the potential consequences of doing it or not doing it. _I _want you to have the radiation, but I can't decide for you… and if you feel that I've pressured you into anything, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that. I j-just want my brother to be healthy and strong, and… and…" he bites his lip to control the slight tremor that has crept into his speech, choking off the end of that sentence: he wants me healthy and strong and _alive._

A deep, shaking breath is taken, and he goes on. "Buddy, I'm not going to push this. If you don't want to do this today, you don't have to. I don't want this anxiety to cause you physical distress. We can turn around and go home, and we can start tomorrow, or next week… or never, if that's what you really, truly want. I won't like it or agree with it, but I will respect your decision, because in the end, it's your body and your choice. I'm just asking you, Ev… please be sure about this. Just really _think _about what you need to do right now. Please."

Hank actually sounds like he's on the verge of tears at the possibility of me not having treatment, though he's doing his best to hide it. To his credit, he has left the ball in my court, which sobers me pretty quickly. And he didn't beg me to do it _'for him.'_ He isn't going to force me to suffer through anything because of his own fear.

"Of course I'm going to have the radiation," I sigh, suddenly drained.

Instantly I see some of the tension lift from his shoulders as he exhales in relief. "Oh, thank God…" he whispers to himself, squeezing his eyes shut. I only catch a fleeting glimpse of the moisture catching hold of his eyelashes before he hurriedly brushes it away and sniffs himself back under control. "You're sure? You really mean it?" he asks, a hint of desperation still in his voice, as if I will suddenly change my mind again. I guess he has a right to feel that way, given my irrational outburst.

"I mean it; I'm going to go through with it. I don't think I was really going to change my mind to begin with. I guess I just… I don't know. I wish I could explain. I just… needed to know I had the option to back out. I'm sorry…" Hank nods slowly as I try to explain my meltdown. "I'm just… scared."

"It's ok, Evan… it's ok. I understand. And I meant what I said: you're the one in charge. If you want my opinion or my advice, I'll gladly give it to you, but you're the decision maker when it comes to your treatment." Hank earnestly reiterates that I am in control. I have to confess, it helps. Knowing that I'm in the metaphorical driver's seat helps me feel a little better. I'm in command of my battle – I get to determine the strategies, the tactics we use to eliminate the enemy. The feeling of power, however limited, relieves some of the tension building up inside my chest.

Of course, by relinquishing all the control to me, Hank also has given me permission to decide when to surrender. If it ever _does_ get to that point (and God willing, it won't), I get to decide when to pull out the troops and wave the white flag. But not before I've literally exhausted every reserve of strength I have. Hank might not be able to ask me to do it for him, but of course that's why I _must_ do it. For him… and for Dad… and all the people I love.

"You ok to get back on the road? It's just another couple of blocks… we're still going to be on time. Not to rush you…" Hank adds hurriedly.

"No… I'll be all right. We can go now," I nod. As Hank turns on the car, I inhale grandly. "Time for me to get nuked," I declare with a big, over-the-top phony smile. Even though I don't feel like I'm going to be physically sick anymore, I'm still not looking forward to this. But the anxiety is down to a dull roar, just slightly higher than if I was going in for a root canal.

Hank winces a little. "Um, Evan? I know you're trying to be cute and everything, but could you not use that term?"

"Why? What's wrong with saying 'nuke'?"

"It's just… completely inappropriate. You're not Hiroshima."

I blink. "I'm not saying 'nuke' like _nuclear warhead_. I'm using it as a verb – as in, '_I'm going to nuke this hot pocket in the microwave.'_" I shake my head in mock disappointment, and mutter. "_I'm _inappropriate? Way too soon for a Hiroshima joke, dude."

"Sixty some odd years is too soon?"

"Much."

"At least I didn't just refer to myself as a hot pocket."

* * *

After parking the car, we go into the hospital and head up to the radiology ward. As the doors close and the elevator begins to lurch upwards, the queasy feeling returns to my gut. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, determined not to freak out again. As I mentally try to slow my racing heart, I feel my brother shift next to me, feel him place his warm, calming hand on the back of my neck. He steadies me, and somehow it's not so dizzyingly hard to breathe anymore. I feel the elevator hiccup to a stop, and I open my eyes just as the doors open.

As we leave the elevator, I'm not prepared to see the knot of familiar faces clustered in the waiting room. Dad, Mrs. Newberg, and Divya are all there, looking toward us expectantly. Dad steps forward to meet us, pulling me into a hug, and I stammer, "Dad? What are you… doing here?"

"What do you mean? Where else would I be today?" He smiles at me, but looks surprised at my confusion.

"No, I, uh… you didn't say you'd be here this morning; I just thought… we'd see you after. But I'm really glad you're here now." I don't know why I'm so flustered. I _am_ glad Dad is here, I just wasn't expecting it. I had absolutely no idea he would be here before the appointment. And I feel a little exposed. My brave exterior I try to wear when he's around isn't fully in place from when it slipped in the elevator (and I nearly giggle as I immediately follow this thought by imagining a Scottish voice saying, "Shields at 40%, Captain!" I really shouldn't have watched that _Star Trek _marathon yesterday).

I've done pretty well, freely admitting when my confidence in the soundness of my health has been shaken, but only to Hank or Dr. Bowers. Dad has not seen me falter. I've been quite careful of it, actually. It's ok to let Hank see me less than 100% positive – he knows me like a book, so even if I were to pretend that everything was hunky-dory, he would know instantly if I was lying. I can usually be convincing around strangers, but I'm really bad at lying to my brother. Always have been.

I guess, after everything, I'm still scared Eddie will panic and leave. He stuck it out while I was in the hospital and showed his support at my diagnosis. He's been attentive during my recovery. Now begins the real test: will he make it through my treatments intact? I suppose there is yet another reason I should be thankful that I don't require chemo at this point – expecting Eddie R. Lawson to see me through that… that could certainly be considered too much too soon. As it is though, the radiation might be enough of a trial by fire for him. But here he is, Day One, with his lady in tow – I can't help but wonder if it was Mrs. Newberg or Hank who told him to see me before I went in, or if he came up with the idea himself. I decide I probably won't ever find out definitively, so I might as well not care what prompted his presence.

We make small talk as Hank checks me in with the nurse. Since I did my preliminary paperwork at the previous appointment when they mapped out the radiation site, all I need to do now is wait for them to call me. Divya pulls me aside, almost shyly.

"Evan, I wanted to give you something… for today. But I swear, if you laugh at me for this, I will hit you very hard in a painful place!" She's using that stern reprimanding-librarian voice on me now, which I love. I'm intrigued by this little preface.

"I promise I won't laugh," I vow solemnly.

Divya, eyeing me warily for any signs of mockery, reaches into the large tote bag on her shoulder (the one that is perfectly color-coordinated with her outfit) and brings out a stuffed animal, well-worn and ancient, but clean and carefully preserved. "This is Basil the Badger. I got him when I was four, and carried him with me all through boarding school and university. Even when I stopped using him as a toy he was a… good-luck talisman of sorts. When I felt lonely or afraid I could always hold him and remember that there were people who loved me, even if they couldn't be with me right then." She bites her lower lip and hands the creature to me, and I take it as if it were made of 14-karat gold. It's very soft, the stuffing having been squished down to nothing in some parts.

"We can't go in there with you, Evan. So I thought, perhaps it was time to take Basil out of retirement so that he could accompany you where we could not… so you wouldn't need to worry. He'd remind you you're not alone, and that we're all here cheering you on." She lowers her eyes, clearly feeling awkward about revealing her soft little underbelly like this.

I can't help but smile. Basil the Badger seems a very un-Divya-like accessory, at least in her present glory, but I imagine her as a little girl, already whip-smart and gorgeous, sent to a posh boarding school far from her family… maybe having trouble fitting in, and without the benefit of the confidence and regal bearing she exhibits today as a grown woman. She said she held this toy when she felt alone. Given Basil's condition, I think she might have felt that way a lot as a kid. I feel like Divya has just allowed me to see a brand new side of her, one that she doesn't show to many people. I feel privileged.

She sees my smile and she rolls her eyes and groans. "God, you said you wouldn't laugh. You think it's ridiculous, don't you? I feel like such an idiot - I kept telling myself it was dumb and it wouldn't help anything at all..."

"No, no, Divs! I don't think it's ridiculous or dumb at all! I'm not laughing at you, I swear!" I hurriedly placate her before she attempts to take Basil back. "Really I'm not… aside from being a little perplexed as to why you gave the name Basil the _Badger_ to what is clearly a raccoon-" I have to dodge as she moves to smack my arm. "- I am… really honored and touched that you would loan him to me for this. I mean… it's clearly precious to you, and it means a lot that you thought of it. You're sure you don't mind him getting all radioactive and stuff?"

"He'll be as radioactive as you are, and you'll still be _almost_ fit to go about in polite society," she smiles, managing a tiny little snark so as not to turn this into a scene from a Lifetime movie. I grin at her, and she leans in and gives me a hug. "I know it's a bit foolish, but I just wanted to... _do _something for you today, to make you smile."

"You've made me smile, which I desperately needed, by the way," I murmur into her hair, leaving out the part about how she didn't need to give me a badger to bring a smile to my face. If I do that, she might take it away. Frankly, I would like the company while I'm getting nuked... I mean, um, _zapped. _"Thank you, Divs."

"Evan Lawson?"

The embrace is broken, and all five of us turn and look at the nurse who has just come to the waiting room. I recognize her from my preliminary appointment (Carol? Carolyn? Something?). Despite her pleasant, expectant smile, my stomach suddenly drops into my feet. Tightening my grip on trusty Basil the Badger, I raise my hand in acknowledgement. _Here we go…_

"We're ready for you," the nurse says (Karen?). I take a look at my support knot, who all just sort of stare back at me. "They're ready for me," I repeat to them, with a smile that is trying its best to be secure on my face.

Hank steps closer to me. "You want me to come with you? I can't go in, but I can wait in the hall until it's done…"

_Yes, Hank, please come with me. _"Naw, that's ok," I find myself saying. "It'll be, what? Ten, twenty minutes tops?" I try to give a lighthearted, casual shrug. "I'll be ok. I've got a badger," I say, holding up my stuffed companion.

Confused (and though he saw her give it to me, he's clearly unfamiliar with Divya's history with the toy), Hank looks at Basil, then at me, and says in a quiet, confidential tone, "That's a raccoon, isn't it?"

My tone matches his. "Leave it alone… we're going to go with badger. It's a _badger_." Hank nods in befuddled agreement. I face the rest of my group, and wave timidly. Then for some bizarre reason that I'm not even aware of, I make Basil the Badger wave his paw at them, too, and everyone sort of chuckles. I don't know why I feel like I'm going off to war. It's ridiculous to be so terrified – it's going to take no time at all; it's not like I'm never going to see my family again. I head toward the nurse (Carla? Carly?). One last look over my shoulder and I see them all smiling at me, hoping to deliver vibes of encouragement and positivity to my dragging spirit. I try my best to put on a brave face, to make sure that's the last image they have of me as the door swings closed between us. I wonder what they'll do while I'm gone?

Now I'm alone in the sterile hallway with the nurse. Tucking her clipboard under her arm, she gently ushers me toward the exam room where I get to change into a flimsy gown. "I'm sorry, can you remind me of your name again?" I quietly ask her, clutching Basil tightly to my chest, more embarrassed at my lack of memory than the fact that I'm a grown man with a stuffed animal. I'm hoping she doesn't feel insulted, like she's easily forgettable.

"Roberta," she answers amiably. Man, I wasn't even close.

_To be continued..._


End file.
